On the Sunny Banks of the Cydnus
by Joyeee
Summary: Retelling of the anecdote about Alexander's trust in his doctor Philip. Diades, Critodemus, and the usual Companions also appear, but it's an Alexander & Hephaestion story at heart.
1. A Light Day

**Sources**: One site in particular I'd like to mention: the mlahanas.de website on medical instruments of ancient Greece, complete with pictures!

**A****/N**: This is an offshoot of the next story I'll post, a prequel of sorts to establish certain things.

Handy info: Critodemus treated Alexander's near-fatal wound from the Mallians. Diades was a key engineer in the siege of Tyre.

This takes place in August 333 BC, a couple of months before the Battle of Issus (and before Critodemus' and Diades' claims to fame as mentioned above).

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Light Day**

Despite being a capital city, Tarsus was small and its defenses were weak. Moreover, the locals welcomed Alexander's arrival, their lands saved from razing by the Persian military thanks to the swift pace of Alexander's march. Taking over the city had been fast and easy – in the soldier's terms, not much more than an exercise.

In Critodemus' terms, it had been a light workday. A score of quick stitches here, a fracture to reset there; the usual knocks and bruises to stabilize with splints and slings. Challenges for apprentices, yes, but downright routine for Critodemus, who, despite being a relative newcomer to the army, already enjoyed Alexander's personal favor as one of the young king's leading surgeons.

Critodemus sighed. But not too deeply. He was in the chamber currently used as the surgical storehouse, which therefore reeked with the odors of several of the most noxious drugs known to civilization – and, as luck would have it, each and every one of them could only aggravate his throbbing headache.

Of course, the fumes here could not be half as horrid as those in the physicians' storehouse. But the heat of the late Cilician summer was certainly not helping; nor was this curiously prolonged downtime that left Critodemus wondering what to do with himself.

As soon as Tarsus was theirs, advance contingents had been dispatched – to scout out paths, to contact informants, to notify nearby towns of the change in leadership and secure their goodwill. But since little resistance was expected, most of the surgical crew remained in the capital with Alexander and the main body of the army. It took some effort for Critodemus to recall exactly how long they had already stayed; the days here ballooned one into the other, stuffy and hot as a teeming surgical tent. The Cydnus, running through the capital, only made things worse – luring a man to peril like a siren, with its stunningly clear waters and equally frigid temperature. Critodemus was not, by any measure, a nostalgic man, but the longer they stayed in Tarsus the more his thoughts drifted, all the way back to the cool highlands and breezy beaches of his native isle of Cos.

A wave of heat rolled ponderously through the chamber. Critodemus pressed his forehead against the tabletop.

_Apollo help me! If only I had some work at hand, it would not be _this_ unbearable!_

Unfortunately, he had already run through every productive activity he could think of. Now he was supervising the final task, the inventory – the task that was always left until later, the task that was behind all else in priority, the task that almost never got done.

Right. Inventory. It had come down to _that_.

Alexander's army had not seen a pitched battle for months. All surgeons knew to expect phases of light workloads, but, as his staff liked to jest, Critodemus did not handle vacations well.

Weeks before they neared Cilicia, when rumor first flitted around that Alexander was anticipating a decisive battle against the Persians, Critodemus promptly submitted all the necessary supply requisitions (and then some) to handle such a massive confrontation. With their patient load so light, he had personally led his staff in the mundane tasks of maintenance, sifting through drugs and discarding expired herbs, patching up surgical tents, repairing old cots and constructing new ones. Every last instrument was repaired or on the books to be replaced; every scalpel, hook, and forceps had been cleaned and sharpened and polished like new. Even the catheters were in tip-top condition, little tubes ready as ever (much to the glee of all the medical staff) to rouse inordinate terror in men who regularly faced down spears, arrows, swords, and scimitars without a second thought.

Lastly, there was the inventory. The headache had come along with it. So now the only thing Critodemus could do was supervise (or, in his opinion, watch in an idle stupor) while his staff counted and tallied and reckoned away.

Well, at least he was in a shaded room, unlike his colleague Philip. Philip had been a physician to the Macedonian royals since before Alexander was born, had treated Alexander when the latter was still a boy. But, as Critodemus realized early on, enjoying Alexander's favor also meant receiving more responsibility. The locals had warned them of fevers and plagues troubling the surrounding area, especially during this time of year, so Alexander had sent Philip off immediately with the diplomatic contingent.

On second thought, however, Critodemus decided he would prefer sweating into a puddle on the road, rather than having his brains swelter in this indolence. Which brought him back to his original dilemma: what was he to _do_, once the inventory was finished –

With a start, Critodemus realized that one of his aides was tapping his shoulder, trying to get his attention. "A messenger from Diades here to see you, Sir!"

By virtue of his profession, Critodemus knew many soldiers, had even made good friends among them (regardless of the fact that most of them, when they first made his acquaintance as patients, had cursed him to the gates of Hades and back). But Critodemus did not know any soldier by that name.

The messenger was young and his face was flushed, but otherwise he looked unfairly composed, considering the temperature. He introduced himself as the bearer of a request for Critodemus to meet with Diades.

"And who is that?" Critodemus asked bluntly, never one to waffle around for the sake of something so trivial as manners, even when he was not at work – or beset by a hammering headache.

The youth blinked, but recovered with unexpected quickness for his age. "Diades the engineer, Sir," he replied, no less polite than when he first walked in. "He said it's to be at your convenience. Only thing is, if you don't mind he'd appreciate meeting in his workshop – he has something there to show you."

Critodemus looked around the room at the tall stacks of bandages, towels, and cloths; the instruments laid out neatly on the tables, ready to be packed into their leather kits; the little jars and large amphorae full of herbs and ointments. And his aides, counting and sorting and scratching away at their parchment, faces red and eyes glassy in the heat.

Critodemus began to suspect that his headache would persist until the next time he could put a bone drill to good use.

"Lead the way!"

* * *

Five paces out the door he was already coated in dust, and if he had felt like a baking lump of dough inside the storeroom, under the sun's white blaze it was positively broiling. The waters of the Cydnus, which ran close to the engineers' quarters, glittered happily at him and aggravated his nerves and his headache all at once. 

Upon arriving at the workshop, however, he momentarily forgot all discomfort.

He supposed an engineer's chambers might naturally contain, well, engineering things. But he had never imagined the explosion of planks, pulleys, tools, papers, and absolutely bizarre devices that was Diades' workroom. It seemed too crammed with contraptions, in fact, to fit any people, but when the messenger announced their arrival, sure enough, there came an answer.

"Oh! The surgeon is here?" exclaimed a cheerful voice, which would have been quite pleasant if it did not seem disembodied.

"Er . . . yes," Critodemus replied, stepping with wary precision around the heap of sharp metal rods at the door. "Critodemus of Cos, here at your invitation . . ."

In a far corner, a person finally popped out from behind a table stacked high with parchments. Despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, Critodemus automatically fell back on a professional habit and quickly assessed his host: a man in his mid-thirties, around Critodemus' own age; lanky and wiry but looking just as vigorous as Critodemus (who was burly as a soldier from years of dealing with patients who couldn't quite control themselves or their tempers). A few secondary details followed: the engineer's hair stuck out a bit, resembling sticks in a wild thicket, and his features crinkled genially as he waved at his visitor. "A pity, a pity I say, that we haven't met before! Diades of Pella, at your service! Tirius, you may go; I know you have much to do!" Diades grinned, then dived back behind the parchments with a loud rustle. "Critodemus, please do find a seat if you can; I'll be with you in a moment. I must say, very civil of you to come at such short notice!"

"It's no trouble," Critodemus called back, tearing his gaze away from the tabletop next to him, which was actually an astoundingly detailed three-dimensional terrain model, complete with hills and valleys, a small groove filled with water for a river, and even sticks topped with green woolen balls for trees. ". . . Light day, as you might imagine!"

"Ah, light days." Diades chuckled. "Driving you up the wall?"

Critodemus' face suddenly broke into a rare grin. "Up and over and around in circles!"

"Ha! Just the time for a diversion, then!" With a large box tucked under one arm and several rolls of parchment under the other, Diades finally emerged from behind the desk, winding his way through the clutter with practiced ease. "The messenger, he told you I had something to show you, yes?" Not waiting for an answer, the engineer somehow cleared a space on a bench without upsetting anything, set the box down, and unrolled one of the parchments. "Here, take a look!"

Critodemus stared, amazed at the sheer amount of scribbling crowding all around the actual drawings. "You wanted to show me – _wagons_?" he asked skeptically.

"Yes. Surgical wagons." Diades beamed, then turned his attention to the box, which bristled with an assortment of wooden contraptions.

"_Surgical wagons_?" Critodemus exclaimed. "Are we to amputate limbs while jolting along over hills and rocks, then?" Even as he asked, though, he was already thinking how he might compensate for the instability –

"They're not for carrying out the actual procedure – at least, not as I understood the original intent," Diades explained as he rummaged through the box. "They're more for _transporting_ patients – you know, Alexander doesn't wait around much if he can help it. The commanders came up with this at their last meeting; they think the wagons might make it easier for the wounded to follow the main army – as well as reduce their recovery time, get them healthy and back in the ranks faster. Ah! Here we are!" Diades finally found what he wanted in the box – a miniature wagon – and held it cheerily in front of Critodemus' nose.

Critodemus blinked, unsure what to make of it all. Special wagons would indeed help – he never coddled patients, but stuffing them into supply wagons was no way to make them follow the army, either. Still, this sort of proposal seemed rather incongruous with his impression of most of the higher officers. Diades, obviously, was eager to design it, but on the commanders' side there was funding to be approved, questions of necessity and feasibility, advantages and disadvantages to be argued for days on end . . . "You mean, this wasn't _your_ idea?"

"_Me?_ Oh, by Hephaestus' hammer, no! This is just a little exercise; an amusement, really – my mind is usually on siege engines, battering rams, that sort of thing. As for who originally thought of it – you'd be surprised what some of those commanders think up, sometimes. But if I had to take a guess – " Diades grinned and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "I'd wager it's one of Hephaestion's suggestions. After all that boy, the one who brought you here, he was the one to deliver the design request, and he's one of Hephaestion's pages –"

Critodemus started; here was a name he knew well. "Really? Hephaestion? But isn't he away, leading the diplomatic contingent? Besides," he could not help a wry grin, "I thought the medical staff were the only ones favored with his – shall we say, his special attention!"

"He comes to you fellows with odd ideas, too? " Diades exclaimed, delighted.

Critodemus allowed a crooked smile. "Not ideas – but herbs, equipment. Alexander brings us things sometimes, also, but he gets caught up talking to the wounded. As well he should; it sounds like absolute rubbish but he brings a light to their eyes as I'd never believe, if I hadn't seen it for myself! But Hephaestion – well, if we want something rare or foreign, we can mention it to him and he'll keep an eye out for it. Other times, he just throws strange herbs and tools our way – 'Here, can you find a use for this?' Strange thing is, sometimes we _can_!"

Diades laughed. "That's what Alexander keeps saying. 'You _can_ design a siege engine a mile high; you _can_ construct a bridge in half a day!' Lucky for us the army needs simple things like wagons too." To Critodemus' astonishment, the engineer started taking the little wagon model apart. "I've designed these for rapid construction and deconstruction, of course – as with all my siege engines and catapults. But it is possible, actually, to build or take apart a score of these in half a day! Here, let me show you; it all fits naturally together – " Within a minute, the pile of parts in Diades' hands were reassembled into the wagon, good as new. "See?"

"Oh! Very clever! So, those are benches for the patients along the sides?"

"Yes, exactly – they can sit or lie down – but I'm not sure how many to put in, how closely they should be set up, and so on. That's where _you_ come in!"

"Well, you tell _me_ what's feasible for a moving army. But I think some storage space would be useful also, to make them more adaptable – you won't have to build in so many benches if you could stow some of our cots on the wagons. They're quite versatile, can be folded to a quarter of a man's height – very compact."

"Really? Do you think I could get my hands on one, just for an hour or two? And, what are the measurements exactly –?"

The next hour passed in a flurry of parchment and model wagons. They shifted benches around, added shelves, designated space for blankets and supplies, tested out the models over the terrain-desk, modified them to increase accessibility to the wounded, all the while discussing in great depth the advantages of so-and-so a design over such-and-such a terrain with this-or-that category of patients.

Just as they were putting the finishing touches on the final drawing, a cry arose outside, carrying a distinct note of alarm.

"_Doctor!_"

* * *

"_D-don't b-be rid-diculous!_" Alexander insisted through chattering teeth as he clambered up from the Cydnus. Water was glistening on his skin, dripping from his hair, covering him like a thousand tiny, blinding ice chips. "A d-docter_, really! _I'm p-perfectl-ly f-fine!" 

Critodemus was not a doctor. Still, his emergency instincts were too deeply ingrained, and he was the only medical staff in the vicinity when Alexander collapsed, a few steps after asserting his perfect state of health.

The crowd around Alexander resumed its dreadful cry. Critodemus plunged in nonetheless, making way with his elbows, shouting at the top of his voice to make himself heard. "What happened?"

"He went for a swim!" howled one.

"He said it was hot!" bawled another.

"How can we go on without our Alexander! – " And the rest was jumbled in an anguished cacophony.

"You're not telling me anything _useful_!" Critodemus fumed. "Did he fall in, did he get hit with something, did he break a bone?"

Fortunately, by now he was getting close to Alexander, and one of the attending pages desperately pulled him forward from the throng. With teary eyes, the boy wailed, "He said he wanted a bath!"

"Th-that's _right_!" Alexander declared, swatting at his friends Leonnatus and Perdiccas as they anxiously tried to lift him to a sitting position. "A _bath!_ Don't t-tell m-_me_ I can't-t d-do someth-thing . . ."

Perdiccas let out a grunt as Alexander's knuckles connected with his shin. "Alexander, no one said you couldn't _bathe_!"

"Anyway, why would you want to bathe in _this_?" Leonnatus broke in, forced to resort to a wrestling hold to stop Alexander's flailing arms. "Plenty of nicer baths in this town – somewhere – I'm sure!"

"No point – oof! – jumping into a river!" added Perdiccas.

"_We march out, full gear, NOW!"_ snarled Alexander – just before toppling back to the ground, unconscious.

Critodemus had long since decided to sort out all this baffling nonsense later. Alexander's face, usually so deeply flushed in sunlight, now looked positively ashen despite the heat. His skin was clammy wherever Critodemus felt for injury, though the examination revealed nothing that the surgeon could identify as a cause.

Critodemus absolutely despised feeling helpless – it was one of the few things that could scare him out of his wits. Trying to suppress the tremor in his voice, he started pointing. "You, go to the physicians' and fetch anyone who's there; hurry! And you, and you, you, and you, help the officers carry him inside!"

* * *

"Well, his skin still feels like a wet fish!" 

"But his forehead's burning up!"

"_Why_ are you poking at his eye?"

"We need to see his pupils – _aaagh!_ Did he just move?"

"Don't stand so close; it might be contagious!"

"What he needs is – is – what _does_ he need?"

"Hot compresses, maybe?"

"Right! Steam out those bad humours!"

"But he's burning up already!"

"A _real_ bath might work, maybe!"

Critodemus tried his hardest not to listen to the gaggle of physicians. Instead, he busied himself with a treatment he often prescribed to his own patients while they recovered: olive leaves. Aside from shrinking swollen tissues, they reduced infections – and fevers. Whatever the physicians finally decided, this could do Alexander no harm – and it was certainly better than nothing (which was exactly what the physicians had actually done so far).

Sniffing the steaming mixture, Critodemus was rewarded with just the scent he wanted, warm and rich, robust. Cautiously he took the vessel to Alexander's bedside – steering clear of the physicians, who were currently huddled around Alexander's midsection and urging each other to feel for signs of indigestion. Sprinkling in a last handful of freshly crushed leaves, he immersed a clean cloth in the hot, fragrant liquid. But just as he was wringing it out to wipe down Alexander's face, the door banged open.

In swarmed the officers, headed by a burly, broad-shouldered fellow with a thick dark beard and an even darker glower. Critodemus knew him as Craterus, one of Alexander's most trusted commanders; Perdiccas and Leonnatus were right behind him, and the rest were equally recognizable. Critodemus suppressed a groan. The last thing his nervous colleagues needed to face right now was the collective wrath of the high command.

For a moment they could hear the low, apprehensive muttering of the crowd gathered outside, but Craterus' thundering voice seized their full attention. "So, what's he got? How are you treating him? How long until he's back on his feet?"

His only answer was an apprehensive silence. Craterus' glower got darker, and even Critodemus tensed. With speed that belied his bulk, Craterus grabbed the front of the nearest physician's robes and growled, "_Say something!_"

The poor man stuttered wildly. "He's – we think – uh, perhaps we should …" His voice rising to a squeal, he finally cried, "Well _Glaucias_ isn't here!"

Craterus unceremoniously dropped the man, but his glower continued full force. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Uh . . . Glaucias is . . . is good, with fevers," another physician ventured. The first one nodded wildly as he scrambled up and away from Craterus, while the rest exchanged quick glances and murmured vague agreement.

Critodemus frowned in suspicion. Whether or not they were telling the truth, Critodemus personally thought Glaucias even more innately shaky than these fellows. But the commanders were eager to take action; Leonnatus turned to the other officers. "Was Glaucias sent with Hephaestion?"

"No," Eumenes answered flatly. "That was Philip."

"Did he get assigned to Parmenion's party, then?" Craterus demanded.

"No. Nor any of the others," Eumenes replied with dismal but absolute conviction.

"Then he should be here!" muttered Craterus. He wheeled on the physicians again. "So why wasn't he escorted here with the rest of you?"

Those who had not frozen up in fright started blubbering. "We – we _don't know_ where he is –!"

"All right all right, _quiet!_" bellowed Craterus.

Another excruciating silence followed.

Finally, Craterus took a few steps toward Alexander's bedside – slow, and unwontedly hesitant. It was quite an odd sight, really, but no one was in the mood to appreciate it. Behind him the physicians scattered from Alexander's side and the other officers hung back in suspense.

In the stillness, they all suddenly realized that Alexander was muttering every now and then – too low for them to distinguish anything except the word "go," which punctuated the otherwise indecipherable syllables like a command. He was shifting restlessly, too, though the movements were small and feeble.

Critodemus swallowed hard, suddenly recalling just how out of depth he really was here.

An arm's length from Alexander's bedside, Craterus paused, peering in perplexion at the king.

"Careful," one of the physicians mumbled anxiously, "it might be contagious."

Craterus frowned heavily at him, and the offending speaker clapped his hands to his mouth. But Craterus said nothing, and went no closer to Alexander. At last, he sighed, his broad shoulders sinking ever so slightly. But in Craterus, such small actions signaled that he was at the end of his wits.

"Sir, if I may –" Critodemus ventured.

Craterus never stayed long in the surgical tents, so recognition took a few moments. Back to his usual brusque self, he flicked his gaze over the steaming liquid and the cloth in Critodemus' hands. "Are _you_ treating him, _surgeon_?"

Critodemus had managed (though just barely) to stand his ground with an irritable Alexander before. He answered Craterus with something that at least resembled calm. "Yes."

Ptolemy came up and took a whiff of the potion. "Olive leaves?" Critodemus nodded.

Perdiccas frowned. "That's not much."

Craterus gave the surgeon a measuring look. "What else do you propose to do?"

Critodemus glanced at the assembled physicians, then thought of Glaucias and his nervous hands and shifty eyes – and his own fear, out there on the banks of the Cydnus.

"Get Philip back as fast as you can."

For a moment he thought that his customary bluntness might have just earned him his own place under a blade. But then, the commanders exchanged a glance.

Craterus' smile was grim. "Fine. But until then, you're in charge of his care."

Then the commanders were rushing back out, calling orders. The physicians watched them go with fearful eyes, sagging in relief only when Craterus, too, crossed the threshold.

Craterus whirled, his glower darker than ever. "If the surgeon needs something done, all of you had better be jumping over each other to do it! Hear that?" he asked, and they all nodded as the uneasy murmur outside started rising, like the first distant wrinkle of a mighty wave. "If anything happens to our King, I won't have to wring your necks – the entire army will be after you!"

This time they did not relax, not even when Craterus' voice faded into the distance, swearing up a storm about Glaucias and the Cydnus and the misbegotten heat of the region in general.

Letting the cloth slip back into the liquid – it needed re-soaking anyway – Critodemos indulged in a moment of absolute consternation. Alexander's labored breathing rasped keenly in his ears.

_That's it. Apollo, Asclepius, and all you Gods, I've learned my lesson, I swear! I'll never lament a light day again._

* * *

_last tweaked 12 July 2007_


	2. A Healer's Worst Nightmare

**A/N**: Didn't mention it last time because I thought most readers would already know, but just in case: Glaucias was responsible for treating Hephaestion's fever in Ecbatana, and, well, neither of them survived it.

* * *

**Chapter 2: A Healer's Worst Nightmare**

Philip smiled as he urged his horse into an easy trot toward the front of the column. The mood among the men was relaxed and light, a far cry from their dismay back in Tarsus upon receiving orders for the mission before they even unshouldered their packs. Except for those who usually served with Hephaestion, they had been understandably disgruntled. Taking over Cilicia might have been easy, but Alexander's lightning marches were no joke, and besides, this additional assignment was a diplomatic operation, one that, if everything went _well_, would require days of tedious travel with no action at all, nothing to boast of afterward.

But now, life was looking much better. Having executed a highly successful mission, they were returning to the capital sooner than expected, laden with gold and silks and other tokens of goodwill for Alexander – and best of all, anticipating their own rewards to come.

"Remember how they watched us from those pitiful little battlements when we first approached?"

"Gates shut up tight."

"Not that that would've been a problem for us, of course!"

"Of course! But an hour later out we were again, with the personal compliments of the governor – and all those gifts! As if we didn't have wagonfuls already from our previous stops."

"Gods, three townships in one day – can you believe it? But all the better to get back to the capital for a _real_ rest."

"We'll be back four or five days in advance, at this rate!"

"Ha! And loaded down with presents!"

"_Told_ you you wouldn't come back without something to show off for it."

"Never mind the trinkets – we'll be back _early!_ Won't Alexander be pleased?"

"Ah . . ." The soldiers laughed quietly amongst themselves; Alexander was generous to a fault with those who excelled. "Of course he will!"

But a few of them understood another factor in their favor, and glanced with knowing smiles toward their commander, a tall, distant figure at the head of the column.

"Alexander will be delighted, for sure!"

"And we all know what that means . . ."

"Rewards all 'round! We'll be living the high life, lads!"

Philip chuckled, noting as ever how easily the soldiers adapted. They had passed through plenty of greater cities – and more temperate climates – since they first started out, all the way back in Pella. But he was no stranger himself to battle, and understood that the soldiers were happy with their victories, not to mention the prizes and celebrations that always followed.

Today, he shared quite wholeheartedly in their contentment. On this trip, no one was keeling over from sunstroke or dehydration; no one was burning up from wound infection. No one had caught any of the unfamiliar illnesses that insisted on cropping up in his sickrooms every time Alexander advanced into new territory.

Yet this journey had not been a waste of time, either – far from it. Sometimes rural areas were the best places to find cures for regional ailments, and in the past few days Philip had learned of several valuable treatments.

In fact, that was why he was approaching the front of the column. He kept his eyes open and his staff alert, but what with envoys and scouting parties and advance set-up crews, the rest of the army covered a lot of ground that the medical staff never got to see. He had managed to obtain a small collection of local herbs, but only enough for a few doses, and there was always the chance, if he showed them to Hephaestion, that one of these days a page or a scout might come knocking at his door with a surprise stock in hand.

As Philip advanced, he noticed that the column, though marching in orderly fashion, was dotted throughout with eclectic clusters of fellow travelers, their good spirits brimming over into random conversations with people they would usually never give a second look. He was passing a diverse little knot right now, in fact – cavalry and foot soldiers mingled with interpreters and scribes.

"Come on, you _must_ know!" insisted one of the younger cavalrymen. "What d'you call someone to _really_ get 'em hopping mad?"

"Well . . ." The interpreters chuckled, shrugging. "There isn't an exact translation for what you're thinking of –"

"But you _must_ know something! Like yesterday, what was it Hephaestion said in that meeting in the second town?"

"Hey, that's right," a guard chimed in. "It was to that one official, the one who did all the talking at first. I had a mind to wipe that smirk off his face with my fist, especially since Hephaestion was being so civil and all – and _us_ the winning party!"

"Exactly!" the first soldier enthusiastically agreed. "But then Hephaestion said something – 'twas the only foreign phrase he said, and he said it with a smile, polite as you please – but it must've been _awful_, to make that official blow up all red in the face!"

"Oh, _that_ . . ." The interpreters exchanged quick glances, some haplessly amused – but a few with mischievous smirks. "He just – he just restated the facts, the situation. In truth he doesn't even know that many basic words, never mind any colorful oaths."

One of the interpreters grinned widely. "He gets on surprisingly well without them, actually – "

"What? How? Don't you try to pull one over on us, that's a crock of –"

"Haha! Don't mind 'im!" another rider broke in, clapping the first on the back. "He's just working up the nerve to ask for a schmaltzy endearment or two, for his sweetheart when he gets back to the capital!"

A chorus of encouraging cheers and mocking whistles arose from the surrounding soldiers, and even the interpreters laughed along. The young cavalryman flushed red to the tips of his ears, but a grin slowly crept back onto his face, and he soon proved that he already commanded quite an impressive arsenal of oaths in his own language.

Philip rode on, musing. Based on his own experience with Hephaestion, Philip considered him a sensible young officer, easy to get along with – and something of a boon to the medical staff. He tended to be rather cavalier in regards to his own health – but then, which healthy young man wasn't? Anyway, no one could beat Alexander in disregarding doctors' orders. (For besides being a King, and all that _that_ entailed, Alexander was also the most stubborn, ill-tempered, flagrantly disobedient patient imaginable – making it all the more difficult for any healer to ensure the King's recovery, not to mention his own neck. Injuries and illnesses were enough to deal with, without having to worry about a patient's rank or the ranks of his friends, and especially without the patient recklessly waving aside medical advice and jeopardizing his own recovery. Philip was very fond of Alexander, but concurred unreservedly with the unanimous opinion of all the medical staff: treating Alexander was a healer's worst nightmare.)

When Alexander was the patient, Hephaestion did listen to the healers, with incredible attention to detail that they could only wish for in all their patients. The rest of the time, he was willing to listen also – if Philip went to Hephaestion with a novel suggestion or a request for a peculiar, rare herb, he could always be certain of sincere consideration, at least, on Hephaestion's part. Philip thought it quite natural for Alexander to send him on so many diplomatic missions – he had patience, a certain slowness to anger, a relative calm that seemed, somehow, to balance Alexander's impulsive, headstrong brilliance.

_Like humours in the body, almost._ Philip smiled.

So it was understandable that even Hephaestion's fellow officers were wondering what had set the foreign official's temper ablaze. Drawing near the head of the column, Philip could already catch snatches of their conversation.

"– don't usually see the opposing party get so riled in your talks, Hephaestion," one of the veteran captains was saying. "But yesterday, that was hugely satisfying – I wouldn't mind ruffling feathers more often! I didn't catch everything the interpreters said, but he was a mean, stuck-up little bastard."

"He was," Hephaestion agreed mildly.

"He had no call to be strutting around, bragging about arranging his town's defenses!" another captain grumbled. "We're just a couple of squadrons, here, but we could've taken them, easy! He had it all wrong – soldiers posted at the most useless locations; too many strategic errors to count!"

"What _I'm_ wondering," remarked another, "is how we left the city an hour later with wagonloads of presents – and the governor beaming at us as if we were long-lost kin!"

Hephaestion smiled easily, and shrugged. "I just . . . presented the facts."

The other officers chuckled, disbelieving. "Come now, Hephaestion, what exactly was it you said? Some terrifically offensive insult, perhaps?"

"No." But Hephaestion's smile broadened, suggesting something rather undiplomatic. "I only pointed out those errors you just mentioned –"

It was then that the call reached their ears. The guards posted out on the right flank were racing back, guiding in a pair of messengers.

They all had to squint in the bright sunlight, but the colors worn by the riders left no doubt: these were royal messengers. Even before they drew near, their hunched riding stances and the sweat glistening on their laboring steeds made their urgency clear. They galloped straight to the head of the column.

"Alexander took fever," they gasped, their voices low more from exhaustion than discretion. "And now he's bedridden, and the army's practically _mourning_ him, and the commanders can't convince them otherwise and the doctors there don't know what to do and they want Philip to treat him!"

A stunned silence fell over those who had heard. Hephaestion's easy smile disappeared.

He turned his stallion smartly; his gaze swept across the column – and alighted on Philip, but only for a moment. Once he saw that Philip was within hearing range, he instantly turned back to the messengers.

Overall, there was no change in the marching train, only a watchful hush at the front as aides and other officers urged their horses near; instead of heading out again, the flank guards held back, alert and ready for a change in orders.

"How long since he took sick?" asked Hephaestion.

"It happened yesterday, early afternoon. We set out within the hour."

"And his symptoms?"

Philip listened with growing alarm as the messengers rattled off a list. He had noticed telltale signs of weariness in Alexander as far back as the Cilician Gates, which they had captured in a whirlwind before hastening down the arid hills to Tarsus. Several scores of soldiers had been laid up, held back in Tarsus for exhaustion alone. Though he and his best colleagues were sent out with various forward contingents, Philip had advised Alexander to take advantage of the time in the capital to rest up as well.

Of course, he could not expect Alexander to follow such instructions. Anything that did not outright cripple him, Alexander was wont to blaze right through, and woe to the poor wretch, be he page, guard, or healer, whose duty it was to see to his rest. And now he had got himself a fever – something as dangerous, in Philip's opinion, as an enemy spear.

"Do you know what might have brought it on?" Philip interjected urgently.

The messengers glanced at each other.

"He wanted a bath."

"He jumped in the Cydnus."

At this Hephaestion's expression twisted incredulously. It rapidly settled back into a stern frown, however, and his gaze withdrew, grew distant as he looked ahead along their path. Absently he ran his fingers through his steed's wind-tangled mane.

Philip was aghast. Never mind that Alexander had been a pupil of Aristotle; any man with a jot of common sense should have guessed, at least instinctively, that jumping straight into ice-cold water after months in sweltering temperatures was not a good idea. Not just a bad idea; it must have been _painful_.

Hephaestion's fingers finished winding through the mane, and he looked up. Quietly he listed what he needed from his men: the two most knowledgeable scouts in the party, the fastest way back, and a timeframe for the journey.

A lieutenant rode off promptly to fetch the scouts, while the aides consulted quickly with their maps and each other. "You can make it back in a day if you take just half a squadron as an escort!" they cried, quite pleased to be able to cut down the original travel time by several days.

Hephaestion listened silently, attentively, while they marked out the fastest return route for him on a map and explained sundry details about the terrain. After that, he spoke apart to his second-in-command. The discussion ended in under a minute. Apparently there was not much to discuss; no surprise, for this mission had been a success – until this moment.

Then Hephaestion dispensed with all but two members of the handpicked half-squadron escort, commandeered the fastest horses in the party, and set off with the two scouts, the two guards, and Philip, at a dead gallop.

* * *

He covered the distance in three quarters of a day – arriving at the gates of Tarsus in the first light of morning with Philip, one guard, and one scout.

The other guard's horse had tripped up in a gully, so he and the second scout were left to wait for the rest of the contingent and return at a slower pace. As Philip drew rein, he almost wished his own steed had also suffered a minor accident. Every joint was stiff, every muscle ached, and it did not help that a mob of distressed soldiers immediately swarmed up, bawling about how Alexander was going to waste away in a sickbed, snatched from them in the flower of his youth and brilliance and glory.

For a moment, Philip seriously considered staying on the horse forever. When he moved one leg the tiniest bit to dismount, his whole body protested, and the idea became ten times more appealing. He winced, wondering if after getting off this horse he would ever be able to sit down again.

Alexander's illness was the reason they were here now, but for Philip the challenge of the moment was to dismount without falling apart. Could not treat Alexander if his own bones disintegrated first.

A rider swept past him.

It was Hephaestion, who pulled up and dismounted in one smooth, efficient move, swiftly and lightly as if fresh from a short afternoon exercise. He plunged right into the sobbing horde and started asking questions. Philip stared.

But he did not feel too bad about it, for the scout and even the guardsman were also slow to dismount.

As he finally managed to get both his feet on the ground, he was careful not to let go his hold on the horse. It was exhausted, too, but at least it was able to stand upright, which was more than he could say for himself.

When he finally thought that his legs might just be able to bear his weight, he straightened, groaning – and almost collapsed anyway in astonishment.

Hephaestion was standing right in front of him, holding out a flask.

Philip stared at it in appreciative surprise. But he had barely got a steady grip on it when Hephaestion was already turning, heading off toward a large building on the banks of the Cydnus (which, even at this early hour, was glittering bright enough to blind).

His tone, though quiet, made it obvious that not only was he expecting no delay on Philip's part, it did not even occur to him that Philip might be too tired for anything less than alacrity. "This way."

* * *

Philip finally staggered into Alexander's antechamber, only to see his colleagues scattered in uneasy slumber all over the couches. Glaucias was the only one awake, huddled in a far corner, but oddly, he shrank back when they walked in and tried to scrunch himself into an even smaller ball. Philip wondered, but continued on; he saw no harm in his colleagues taking shifts.

But contrary to his expectations, inside the room with Alexander there were no physicians – only Critodemus.

The surgeon blinked blearily at them for a few seconds. Then he violently sprang from his chair.

"Philip – thank the Gods you're here! And Hephaestion! How did you return so quickly – it's not been two days!"

"Couldn't get back fast enough," Philip replied dryly, grimacing as his leg muscles, finally allowed a long-awaited pause, seized the opportunity to start cramping. He glanced anxiously toward the bed, but noted, too, the haggard appearance of his usually imperturbable colleague. "Hephaestion finished the talks quickly, so we were already on our way back. How is he?"

"He's still feverish, drifting in and out – doesn't seem to be worsening, but he's not improving, either. Though, as usual he seems to think he can _will_ himself better. A few hours ago he even insisted to have his letters brought, but he only looked at one before he stopped. Crumpled the letter in his hand and turned away, and hasn't roused since."

"Who's been in charge of –"

Philip broke off. Critodemus was suddenly staring past him, and there was something astoundingly close to wonder in his eyes – a most uncharacteristic look, for him. Curiously, Philip followed his gaze.

Hephaestion had seated himself on the bed – cautious not to disturb Alexander's rest, but near enough to look at him closely.

Alexander shifted. Critodemus tensed, ready to explain about Alexander's restless muttering spells. But Alexander only murmured a few words this time.

Hephaestion had fallen still when Alexander stirred. He held still until Alexander subsided, did not even seem to breathe until Alexander's breathing returned to a certain rhythm, rasping but even. His features were set, stern and grave, still as a marble statue – had been, as Philip recalled, ever since they got the news.

But his hands moved carefully – gently – as they smoothed back Alexander's hair, lingered over the faint shadow along Alexander's jaw, took up the poultice-steeped cloth from the basin and wiped the sweat from Alexander's brow.

Critodemus seemed about to say something – and if Philip knew his colleague at all, it was no doubt a warning of some sort, that fevers tended to be contagious, that it was dangerous to lean in so closely. But the surgeon stopped short.

Shoved nearly all the way under the pillow, folded and crumpled under Alexander's palm, was the letter Critodemus had spoken of. Hephaestion drew it out cautiously, and Philip could not help but recall what he had heard of another letter, one Alexander had chosen to share, the intimate confidence repaid with a kiss upon Alexander's seal.

He wondered if they would learn the contents of this current letter. Disturbing news could, after all, affect a patient's condition.

But Hephaestion did not open the letter. He merely smoothed out the wrinkles and returned it, still folded as it was, under Alexander's hand.

Critodemus swallowed back whatever he had wanted to say and looked away very quietly, as if he had accidentally stumbled across some marvelous secret he had never been meant to know. Despite the circumstances, Philip smiled. He had little respect for surgeons who only knew about hacking and cauterizing; Critodemus, despite all initial impressions, was not one of them.

Clearing his throat, Critodemus straightened himself and regained a little of his usual briskness. He pulled Philip off a ways and asked, softly but urgently, "Do you think you can cure him?"

Philip could not bring himself to express doubt, but he could not lie, either. His answer was grim, pitched low for Critodemus' ears only. "Perhaps, but I need to know more. Who's been treating him?"

The haggardness returned. With a hapless shrug, Critodemus replied, "Me."

Philip waited for another name – a physician's name – but none came.

Critodemus sighed. "That's it. Me. The others couldn't decide what to do. So Craterus gave me the honor."

"Craterus?" Philip repeated, surprised. "Well, how come he's not storming around here now?"

"The officers heard a rumor, yesterday evening, that Darius or his spies might have managed to buy someone off – someone in our camp – to try and poison Alexander." Philip started in alarm, but Critodemus continued, "So, for better or worse, a few hours after laying into all of the physicians for not doing anything, the officers threatened arrest, and more, if any of them lifted a finger the wrong way before your arrival. Craterus said you're the only one to be trusted, now, since you've been with Alexander since his childhood. They let me continue treating him with a poultice of steeped olive leaves, but only because I'd already been doing it and he seemed to be breathing a little easier for it." He shook his head ruefully, ran a hand through his hair in worn-out frustration. "Is it true Glaucias is especially good with fevers?"

Philip blinked. "You could say that, I suppose. He knows them well – by theory."

Critodemus scowled. "Well, he didn't even dare show his face here, not until the officers were scouring the city for enemy agents. Slunk in, in the wee hours of the morning."

Philip frowned. He opened his mouth to ask another question –

– but Hephaestion beat him to it.

"Is that true?"

Hephaestion was still with Alexander, but he had fixed Critodemus with an unnerving stare. His hands remained infinitely gentle as he finished rearranging the pillows under Alexander's shoulders, but then he stood up, and it was suddenly very, very clear that Hephaestion was the tallest person in the room, and a first-class young soldier and a commander to boot.

Even Critodemus, who had now withstood the full-force glare of Craterus as well as Alexander, suddenly felt his skin crawl.

"Uh . . . Hephaestion," he said, darting an uneasy glance at Philip. However upset he was with colleagues shying away from work, his prime objective had not been to get anyone in trouble. "He was probably afraid of administering the wrong thing –"

Hephaestion just kept staring at Critodemus with that frighteningly keen look. At last, he repeated softly, "He didn't . . . _dare_?"

The next second he was out the door.

* * *

They could hear Glaucias babble something about not daring to treat the King considering the officers' latest orders. _Wrong answer_, Critodemus thought indignantly, any guilt he might have felt vanishing at once upon hearing such a bald-faced lie.

Philip hastened with Critodemus to the antechamber. By the noises they had guessed rightly that Hephaestion had hauled Glaucias out of his corner, but they both froze at the threshold. The rest of the physicians, jolted awake, were trapped in a speechless daze; even Critodemus stared open-mouthed, and Philip distantly sensed he was doing the same. So _this_ was what those interpreters meant by "getting on surprisingly well" without profanity –

"You gutless, spineless, yellow-bellied _coward!_ What do you think the army clothes and feeds you for! Sniveling and cringing, hiding away in some gods-forsaken corner while the men you should be treating are suffering, _dying? 'Dare not!_' Yet you dare to pull the officers into this, to cover for your own weaknesses! Where was that daring when the rest of your colleagues were called in to see Alexander? You '_dare not_' treat the King? How dare you _refuse_, you rabbit-hearted, chicken-livered, wretched miserable excuse of a –"

Abruptly Hephaestion stopped. In the sudden silence, Critodemus and Philip heard it, too, but only after a few more seconds – a weak moan from Alexander's chamber.

Critodemus wondered how on earth Hephaestion had heard that in the middle of his tirade, but had no time to ponder this as Hephaestion whirled, his features gone in half a heartbeat from blistering wrath to the most ridiculously tender, anxious expression Critodemus ever saw. The next moment he had pushed heedlessly past Critodemus and Philip and dashed back into the other chamber, leaving Glaucias cowering in the middle of the room and the rest of the physicians gawking in stunned silence.

Philip and Critodemus exchanged a hesitant glance.

"Well. I suppose we should –" Philip took in a breath, slowly, "– go in, too."

"I suppose," Critodemus echoed, his mouth dry.

They glanced toward Glaucias. "You stay here," they said simultaneously, and then smiled awkwardly, humorlessly at each other, even as their professionalism – and their newfound apprehension of Hephaestion – impelled them toward the door.

Behind them, the other physicians followed sheepishly one by one, none of them wanting to suffer Glaucias' fate. Treating Alexander would no longer be considered a nightmare – failing Alexander was much, much worse.

* * *

_last tweaked 02 May 2007_

_Feedback is great!_


	3. If

**A/N**: I'm not sure if ancient Greeks knew about pulses, but considering what they did know, I thought it wouldn't be too out of place.

Again, something readers might know already: Aristophanes was a contemporary of Euripides (whom Alexander and co. supposedly quoted a lot), but mostly wrote comedies (while Euripides was one of the best-known classical tragedians).

* * *

**Chapter 3: If**

The aching, the nausea, the stifling heat – it was all nothing to him; he should be able to overcome all of it. What really alarmed him – absurd, of course, but damnably true at the moment – was how his own limbs were defying his commands, refusing to pull off anything more than a few pathetic flutters. He should be up and about! There were things he needed to do, things that should have been done already, and instead all this time was passing him by, time that was important, key, crucial, for his campaigns, for his army, for everything.

In a last-ditch attempt to assert some control, he tried to flex his fingers. Just his fingers.

A distant, needle-like tingle was the only response. He swallowed, despite the pain in his throat.

Worse yet, he could not see his surroundings. The light was bright, too bright, too hot, fueling the throbbing pressure in his head, and even shutting his eyes could not keep the awful red glare out entirely.

The silence only drove the last stake home. No movement, no sight, no sound. Suddenly, even breathing became difficult –

Then, he thought he heard a voice he knew.

He tried calling out to it.

Had that pitiful little noise come from his throat? Especially considering how he could address entire battalions of troops at once?

Whatever the case, a few seconds later a shadow happened to block some of that wretched light, and he could finally force his eyes half-open for a blurry glimpse.

". . . 'phaestion?"

Suddenly there was a grip on his hand, so strong it broke through the numbness in his fingers, so fierce it almost hurt. Then, more breath than voice, "Yes, Alexander."

"How – you should be – I thought you were . . ." Alexander thought, hard. Things he needed to do, things that should be done already . . .

The effort brought lucidity back, but details remained beyond his grasp. Restlessly he forced his eyes open again, searching for some clue in Hephaestion's face.

Hephaestion looked . . . worn. As if by long travel, or lack of sleep.

Fair enough. It was not so very unusual that it should be taken as a sign of alarm.

But when he let go of Alexander's hand to brush limp, sweaty curls from Alexander's brow, his touch betrayed a slight tremor. And Alexander could tally on one hand the number of times he remembered Hephaestion looking _that_ worried.

". . . 're you all right?" he asked.

He expected a retort of some sort – lighthearted, tongue in cheek, the sort that always reassured him Hephaestion was fine, or would be. _No, Alexander, I'm hungry and tired, and terribly ill and badly injured too, too exhausted to say so much as a single word to you!_

But Hephaestion only gave him a strange look. It could almost have been a hint of his usual smile – if not for that look in his eyes.

"Perfectly," he answered.

Alexander was not reassured, frowned, and thought harder, persisting even as the pounding in his head redoubled. Hephaestion turned and gestured as if beckoning someone, but Alexander barely noticed. Something _was_ wrong; there was something he needed to do, _right away_ –

"Darius! There was a – a report, his advance. Is he . . . ?"

At that, Hephaestion's expression changed, almost hardened. "He's far away. Very, very far; forget him. Listen to me; your doctor's here, your very best, and he needs to have a thorough look at you –"

"No. Don't go."

A pause.

"I'm right here." And then, that grip on Alexander's hand again – not quite so fierce this time, but firm and reassuring.

Alexander blinked rapidly, trying to see better as footsteps approached. He heard Hephaestion's voice, directed elsewhere – "The curtains." And the light became bearable after that, so Alexander finally opened his eyes, and saw Hephaestion, and Philip the doctor. Critodemus the surgeon was hovering at the foot of the bed, and more people were beyond – other physicians, he realized. Some of them were scurrying about, letting the window drapery down. Philip was peering at him, and asking Critodemus questions.

Philip.

The pillows were stacked just as Alexander liked them, so thick and high that he was practically sitting up. It was easy to glance down without noticeably turning his head.

Parmenion's letter was still there, only a corner peeking from under one pillow. Good.

Philip started asking Alexander questions, too. At first, Alexander was slightly grateful that they only required a nod or a shake of his head to answer, but indignation rapidly won out. He might not be able to speak very loudly, or very clearly, or for very long, for now – but he _could_ speak.

A jumble of voices arose outside. Alexander recognized them all before they entered the room – Craterus, Leonnatus and Perdiccas, Eumenes and Ptolemy and many others besides. But he was still getting his bearings, still gathering up what he could of his strength, and before he could greet them they were all talking at once – but not to him.

"You're here!"

"He's awake!"

"What's the diagnosis?"

"Does he look any better?"

Craterus, as usual, got straight to the point. "You can cure him, right?"

Alexander scowled. Yet before he could formulate a brilliant speech to tell them all off for making him the subject of the conversation, with him right there in front of them, wide awake and perfectly able to speak to them aching and queasiness and sore throat be damned, Philip said, "As I thought, it's a local illness. There is something I can give him . . ."

Never mind the brilliant speech. Exasperated, Alexander broke the silence that followed before it became too ominous. "But?"

It came out, decidedly, as a croak; his lips were dry and hot and cracked and he had only thought his throat was not _that_ sore because the rest of him ached even more.

Still, he achieved his aim. The way their gazes all swiveled toward him was proof.

"As I said, there is a treatment I can give." Philip did address Alexander this time – a small satisfaction, though the fact that Philip thought he had to repeat himself made Alexander's teeth grind. "I only have enough of the main herb for one dose, so you'll have to send out scouts. But it's not hard to find," he added quickly.

Craterus grimaced, but shrugged. "The men need something to do anyway."

"Also – " Philip hurried to continue; that had only been the first of many stipulations – "it will take a full day to prepare. I just learned of it the last few days –"

"A _full day_?" Alexander repeated, but again everyone's attention had got away from him.

"Wait," Ptolemy interrupted. "You mean you haven't tried this _before_?"

"Who was it you learned it from?" Leonnatus demanded. "Craterus said we could trust _you_, but –"

"But we, uh, would rather not, you understand, be – experimenting!" Craterus cut in suddenly; Perdiccas elbowed Leonnatus with a surreptitious glance toward Alexander. "Not, in any case, at such a – at a time like this, with, the Gods only know, what the local populace might be capable of, or not –!"

"Oh, _leave off!_" Alexander groaned and clutched his throbbing head in utter despair; even if he had a little (just a little) trouble speaking, he had no trouble understanding what they were trying so badly not to say; _this_ was why he had not shown anyone the letter! But if Parmenion had notified _them_ of his suspicions also, then Alexander had basically lost his best physician for several weeks, at least – and that was if the imprisonment and subsequent investigation ended _well_!

"I know the rumor!" he growled, and kicked ineffectually at the bedcovers; Gods, his whole body felt like it was being smothered or baked or both. "Too hot!" he cried in frustration, but plunged on to his point before anyone could react. "The rumor is just that: a _rumor_. And the lot of you can stop fussing over it. Do you _really_ believe it, anyway? Well I'll tell you right now, _I_ don't; I'll decide what to believe and I've decided not to believe it."

His officers stared at him, bewildered. Not surprising, when half of what he said was punctuated by coughing. He definitely needed to recover, soon – right this moment would be good. Especially now that Hephaestion was frowning at him, as severely as any of his older generals ever had.

"You know someone's trying to poison you?" Leonnatus finally blurted out. "But how? – we just heard of it ourselves last night –"

"Look I _said_ I don't believe it, and you all had better stop hedging around it, or else I'll be here forever! And with Darius getting closer every hour! I can tell you _he's_ not lying around in some oven of a sickroom sweating his life away; I _know_ that last report said he was on the move, I remember quite clearl – !"

Alexander stopped short, but this time, praise Zeus, it was not because he had to cough. He stared at Leonnatus. "_Someone?_" he repeated. "_Someone's_ trying to . . . ?"

"We scoured the city," Leonnatus reassured him hastily. "But all the suspects' alibis are checking out."

Alexander squinted at them all, studying their faces. Slowly, he exhaled.

No one else knew. This could still happen quickly, easily.

"Philip, please." He attempted valiantly to cover up the wheezing. "Continue."

Craterus heaved a sigh. "Philip, do you really trust a remedy you've only just heard of?"

"I learned of it from peasants," Philip explained, understanding the officers' apprehension. "If I'm not mistaken – " he glanced toward Hephaestion for confirmation – "they don't even know a Great King exists. They deal with local overseers, and that only once or twice a year."

Eumenes' brows lowered. "But do we really need to try something so . . . untested?"

"Each region's diseases, and their treatments, vary. Alexander, you know this," Philip appealed. "There's a reason the others weren't sure what to do for you. This is the best treatment – the only one I can offer with any confidence. The preparation makes sense, from all that I know of the ingredients, and I've seen it in action. The first dose acts as a purge; you'll start feeling better soon after. Still – " He braced himself; if Alexander could not accept this last condition, everything else was moot. "It won't rid your body of the disease for some time. It takes several doses to start working as an actual cure –"

"I don't need a cure," Alexander cut in, again attracting a roomful of incredulous stares. "Not right away," he clarified, but this time he spoke with care, taking a breath when he needed it. Things had to start happening, _now_.

He met Philip's troubled gaze evenly. "Only make me able to ride to war. You said one dose can relieve my symptoms. The rest can wait."

Philip started to glance toward the others again, but Alexander pushed himself off the pillows. Hephaestion was now frowning as severely as ten Craterus's put together, but his arm immediately came around Alexander's back to support him.

Alexander had already grabbed Philip's forearm. "Do it. Give me the purge, first, and we'll worry about curing me later."

Finally, Philip nodded. Alexander released his hold.

It was as if the tension had been sustaining him. Having won Philip's agreement, he relaxed just a little – and his body sank down, deep into the pillows. A wave of nausea engulfed him; he closed his eyes unconsciously against it. The voices around him faded to a vague muddle, and then silence.

* * *

"Alexander!" the officers cried, surging forward; Hephaestion had a hand on Alexander's shoulder and was shaking it a little. Philip rushed to listen, to feel, for Alexander's breath. 

It was labored, but stable, merely slower. "He's all right!" Philip announced. "He needs sleep, anyway."

It took a while for everyone to calm down.

Philip braced himself, even as the others regained their composure. There was a question that had been plaguing him, and it was plaguing everyone else, too – he was sure of it. Otherwise they would not have reacted just now with such alarm.

If they asked, and if he answered truthfully, it might just cost him his life.

But though it was a difficult question to answer, it was perhaps even more difficult to ask. Craterus took a deep breath, said, "So the medicine takes a day to prepare? Let's get on with it then!" – and Philip relaxed a little.

Without looking up, Hephaestion said, "What can be done for him in the meantime?"

Philip sighed, relieved. That was a very easy question. "Keep applying warm poultices. That one of olive leaves Critodemus made – it's as good as any."

Hephaestion dropped his hand from Alexander's shoulder – an unremarkable gesture, in itself. But Philip was in just the right place to see that his fingers pressed briefly against Alexander's wrist. Still not turning around, Hephaestion asked, "Anything else?"

Another easy question. Yet, Philip felt a prick of something, and had to suppress a shiver despite the heat.

It was not fear, he knew that much. He had seen Hephaestion with a bedridden Alexander before, and recognized this pattern – easygoing good humor gone, supplanted by a relentless, almost eerie dedication, until Alexander's recovery was assured. But Philip could not identify the feeling; neither could he shake it as he replied, "Well, there are many little things that can help. Mild treatments that won't interfere with the purge – tonic of germander to help him sweat out the bad humours, drinks infused with herbs to lessen the nausea . . ."

Craterus shot a glare at the rest of the physicians. "Sounds simple enough. You all can concoct a few things, surely, to give the King a little relief while Philip is preparing the purge?"

"Craterus," Eumenes muttered, "just yesterday you were threatening to have them stoned if they did anything."

"Anything _wrong_," Craterus corrected. "This should be basic, even for them!"

"I wouldn't be too sure of it," grumbled Leonnatus. "They don't handle pressure well at _all_."

"But Craterus is right to put them to work. Philip has more than enough to do." Hephaestion turned around, oblivious to several bemused looks shot his way, and cast the physicians a decidedly cool glance. "Critodemus, you know of these treatments?"

Critodemus immediately understood. "Of course."

"He can oversee them," Hephaestion said to the other officers.

"Are you sure?" Eumenes scowled doubtfully. "He's relatively new with us."

"He sewed up this gash I got at the Gates pretty well," Leonnatus remarked, lifting his arm to showcase a long, narrow scab as proof. "Barely two weeks, and the bandage is off and it's healing nicely, no infection, nothing. Except now it itches something terrible, of course."

"He's fixed me up before, too," Craterus said. "And he did a good job of it."

He looked pointedly at Hephaestion. "Besides, if _you_ trust him with the King's life . . ."

Hephaestion returned his gaze evenly. After a moment, he gave a slight nod.

It was like blades meeting – but with restraint, even with courtesy. No clash, no sparks; the edges there, definite and sharp – but not in opposition.

"Anyway," Craterus gruffly added, "if he were up to something, he'd already have done it."

There was an off-kilter pause. But Alexander started shifting uneasily again. Hephaestion reached out, guided his weakly flailing hand away from the steaming basin on the bedside table. Craterus heaved a conclusive sigh and looked around the room. "Anything else?"

"You'll need people who can recognize the herb to go with the scouts," Philip said. "Some of our staff can go, as soon as I show them the plant."

"I'll set up the scouting parties," Leonnatus volunteered. "Just send your fellows over."

"I'll let the rest of the men know what's going on," Ptolemy spoke up. "Quiet them down a bit, hopefully."

"We should send people to check that report about Darius," suggested Perdiccas.

"Good idea; I doubt Darius could ever march so quickly with the hundreds of thousands he supposedly has, 'Immortals' or no." Craterus nodded. "Fine, everything's settled then. Well, we've all got something to do, so how's about we pack out of here and leave the King in peace?"

"Yes, best for him to sleep," Philip agreed.

With a plan finally determined, there was a collective sigh of relief.

"But someone can – should – stay," Philip added, and thought of Hephaestion's fingers on Alexander's pulse.

Again, he happened to be in just the right position to see a tiny thing. Alexander's eyes were still closed, but his brows had drawn together as Craterus spoke. Philip could have sworn that Alexander's hand twitched, as if tightening on Hephaestion's.

Hephaestion had no outward reaction that Philip could see. He only pulled the poultice basin closer with his free hand. Philip blinked, wondering if it had all been a trick of his sleep-deprived eyes as everyone bundled quickly out the door.

Standing furthest from the entrance, Philip was the last to go. It was fortunate, since, having leaned surreptitiously against a table all this time, both his legs had fallen asleep. His aching backside was no help either.

But perhaps it was just as well, because before he got halfway to the door, Hephaestion called him back.

Everyone else was gone. Philip was accustomed to sickrooms, but here, in Alexander's chamber, the hush was almost unnatural.

Hephaestion was still turned away from him, toward Alexander. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but level.

"Will he live?"

There it was. The question.

Philip tried to keep his voice steady. "Yes, he will. If . . . " It struck him just how desperate the officers must be, to trust in his plan when there were so many complications to it – so many things that could go wrong, _fatally_. "If everything goes as we hope."

Hephaestion's voice lowered even more. "That's a terrible 'if.'"

Philip nodded mutely. Healers could only do so much. If the Gods willed it, if the Fates wanted it – the life of a man, even a King, was theirs.

He was just about to head back out, when Hephaestion turned and gripped his arm.

Suddenly, Hephaestion looked very, very young. He drew in a breath, sharp and ragged. "Whatever you need, Philip, just name it."

It was a promise, a solemn oath. But – most of all – it was an entreaty.

Philip caught his breath, had to fumble for a reply. Yet he meant it, every word. "I know exactly whom to ask."

Now he knew what that prickly feeling had been.

An odd thing, pity. For it was Philip whose hair had already grayed, whose bones creaked, whose legs felt like water even now – while Alexander was King, and Hephaestion a friend of his since childhood, and the both of them young and gifted, accomplished – and with so much yet before them.

In fact, the fortune of the entire army was soaring under Alexander's leadership. And they might rise to even greater heights, glory and riches beyond their wildest dreams –

If Alexander could pull through this first.

Hephaestion just looked at Philip for a moment. Then he nodded, almost sheepish.

"Go on." Something dark flashed in his eyes, a remorse that Philip could not comprehend. "I've kept you too long already."

* * *

Now that he was alone, now that he had put in the last ingredient and there was nothing to do but wait, the immensity of the situation finally hit him full-force. A terrible 'if,' indeed – a great many terrible 'if's.' Philip could imagine many, many ways for this to end badly, and only one way for it to end well. 

So, like any green apprentice, he was standing over the concoction, staring at it, as if that could make it boil faster.

A knock came on the open door. It was Critodemus.

"The others are done," he said by way of greeting. Philip only looked at him blankly, so he elaborated, "The other physicians. With the 'little things.'"

"Oh. Good," Philip said, and vaguely waved Critodemus to a seat.

"So . . . " Critodemus peered at the liquid. Its surface was, of course, still perfectly smooth. Philip gave it an impatient stir.

Critodemus eyed him warily. "So, everything's all right, then."

"I suppose." Philip frowned as the ripples quickly faded. "If I've done everything right. If Alexander can just give himself a chance to recover. If, if –" Philip threw the stirring rod down. "If only Alexander hadn't jumped in a river in the first place!"

Critodemus gave him a shrewd look. "After all this, in addition to honoring Apollo and Asclepius, we're going to pay a long, hearty tribute to Dionysus."

Philip raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't drink much?"

Critodemus looked levelly at him. "After treating Alexander I do. Every time."

Philip blinked.

"Entire amphorae," Critodemus said matter-of-factly.

They both cracked a smile.

"So Alexander's up to his ears in medicines, now?" Philip asked, finally letting himself collapse – but not too hard – in a chair.

Critodemus nodded. "He's still sleeping, though. Hasn't taken anything."

"Sleep is good. Alexander doesn't give Hypnos his due!" Philip sighed. "After this, I'm going to sleep for an entire day. Or a week. And," he added with sudden vehemence, "I'm not going to mount another horse for at least a month."

"If Alexander has his way," Critodemus said dryly, "we'll all be galloping off as soon as he can sit up." Abruptly he frowned. "And we just might; did you know Diades is designing special wagons for recovering patients?"

"Really? But that's more in your line; they won't do sick people that much good." Philip grimaced. "Alexander needs to just . . . rest. For a couple of _months_."

"You can convince him, right? Seems to me he prefers your care, at least."

"Perhaps. I've been his doctor for a long time. Then again, I think he favors you among the surgeons, and you joined us not too long ago."

"I've been wondering about that," Critodemus remarked. "I mean – I don't mince around with patients. I make it clear what they need to do – or _not_ do. You tolerate their . . . characters, more – but you don't take any nonsense from them either. I wonder if it isn't why Alexander prefers the likes of you and me."

Philip chuckled. "I'm not sure, sometimes, if his preference is an honor or a curse. If I had a drachma for every time I've had to point out he was ruining his own recovery, only to be rewarded with self-righteous outrage, I could've retired already. Might've, even so, if it weren't for Hephaestion being there to mediate a bit."

Critodemus snorted. "Not that Hephaestion's exactly a model patient, himself."

"Yes, but he's not overtly belligerent about it." Philip sighed. "At least neither of them get sick often. But you've not been with us long, and considering only Alexander, you've had to treat him what, three or four times?"

"Five." Critodemus shrugged. "Still, give me a battlefield any day rather than a sickroom. Surgery's messy, but compared to your work it's straightforward as a spear thrust!"

"Nothing mysterious about it _this_ time," grumbled Philip. "Alexander was tired already – everybody was, coming here. I told him to take it easy; I quartered scores of soldiers for exhaustion – young men, too, strong as bulls."

"Then he goes and jumps in a freezing river," Critodemus said with a flicker of a smile.

"Well, Alexander has always liked his baths. I approve of baths."

"Oh, I do too. Washing helps wound-healing."

"It's conducive to the balance of the humours, overall."

"Well, bathing's not nearly as effective in balancing humours as, say, bloodletting," Critodemus said with a gleam in his eye.

"But it's also much more pleasant," Philip replied with a crooked grin. "Besides, in an army of this size the bathing habits of the men make all the difference between a pleasant day and a downright putrid one."

"True. But Alexander jumped in a _river_, a freezing river at the height of summer."

"Exactly," Philip groaned. "Another example of royal behavior – no, Alexander's behavior in particular – telling the likes of us to take up another trade!"

But he quieted, then, thinking back to earlier days. In certain ways Alexander had not changed, and in certain ways that was a good thing, too. "I wouldn't quit, though. At least, not for several more years."

"I wouldn't either. After all," Critodemus grinned, "we have to treat a King and his entire army. But – we get to treat a King, and his entire army!"

The mixture drew their attention with a goopy pop, followed by another, and another. Philip smiled, and took up the stirring rod.

* * *

Again and again he tried to struggle back to the waking world. But each time the nausea pushed him down, and the aches. The heat never left, and all he could think was _hot_, and _stifling_, and an enemy was approaching, and he was going to fall. And sometimes – this was the worst – it would seem, at first, as if at the other end of his struggle there would only be more stillness, more silence. 

But someone else was there, every time.

At first, that someone gave him – forced on him – some extremely horrid things to drink, acrid, bitter, hot enough to make him sweat as soon as he swallowed. But then, during later bouts of half-consciousness, it was not quite so hot, and there were cloths against his fevered skin, permeated with strong scents that took away some of the queasiness.

And he never had to fall back asleep in the midst of silence. He could not understand everything, but it was a voice he knew, and loved well. He caught fragments here and there. Homer, Xenophon, snatches of Aristophanes – and, quite often, updates on how his own army was doing.

Slowly, he calmed.

And then, he could finally bring himself to acknowledge the truth. He was very ill indeed.

When at last he fully woke, dates and details were tangled in an awful mess again, and it was still too muggy for comfort. His head was no longer throbbing, but the rest of him still ached, he still felt like throwing up, and though the bedclothes were clean and fresh he could feel sweat beading up all over his skin by the moment.

He reached blindly. His hand made contact with something, someone's arm, but he could not summon the strength to hold on to it.

"Alexander," a voice called softly, the same one that had been there all this time, and the next moment Alexander felt that arm at his back, helping him sit up. A cup was held to his lips, water laced with honey and fresh menthe; _Hephaestion_, he thought as the liquid slipped down his throat and sent a refreshing sort of warmth throughout his chest, and with an effort he opened his eyes.

The room was quiet and dim. A subdued light seeped in through the curtains, shimmering faintly through the fine cloth. Hephaestion was sitting next to him, holding him up, his head bent a little as he studied Alexander with wide, dark eyes.

Alexander frowned. Details were trickling back. Philip, and the officers, and the medicine . . . The letter was still there, under his pillow. Tiredly he stuffed it further, all the way underneath.

Hephaestion caught the movement, followed it with a neutral look, but only put the water back on a tray amid a host of other basins, cups, and jars.

"I'm awake," Alexander declared.

Hephaestion looked at him again, critical, somber. Then he smiled, briefly. "Impeccable timing. Philip's medicine should be ready soon."

Medicine. Recovery. Darius, and his marching army. And the many things Alexander had planned, to meet his greatest foe.

"What day is it?"

Hephaestion told him.

Suddenly Darius was no longer such a pressing issue. Alexander blinked a few times. "But you – you should be –"

"The talks are finished."

Alexander stared at him, perplexed. "Already?"

Hephaestion returned his attention to the tray on the table. "They were successful. By the way there are several loads of presents coming in – silks, metalwork."

Alexander hardly listened.

"You – you came back early –" he breathed. "How many days –?"

"Would've been back three days from now anyway," Hephaestion absently replied, wrinkling his nose as he examined one of the jars.

That was still three or four days in advance. A slow, wide smile spread across Alexander's face.

Hephaestion noticed Alexander's shining eyes with some alarm. "They said your eyes would water." He took the lid off of a basin and moved it carefully over Alexander's lap as steam billowed out. "Here, try to lean over this; Critodemus said it would help – "

Alexander had to hold his breath not to laugh; that would set off a long cough, and _hurt_, and more importantly he would never get his point across. "No, you goose."

He reached for Hephaestion's hand, and though he had to draw it away from the basin it closed over his chilled fingers willingly, bringing warmth and feeling back to them.

"Try to lean over the basin," Hephaestion repeated, even more anxious now.

"Hephaestion!" Alexander said, exasperated.

The thought returned to him – this was not how Hephaestion usually looked. Especially when it was just the two of them. Not so solemn, so _worried_.

Then he realized – now that he had acknowledged he was ill – that worry was for _him_.

Hephaestion had seen him wounded before, had seen him ill before. How many times, now, had they gone through these debates, these tugs-of-wars – one the careless patient, and one the over-careful friend?

But he supposed this was a little different. Neither had ever been bedridden, unconscious, for days on end, not during all the years they had known each other – at least, not when they were together, the one easily able to see for himself just how badly off the other was. Alexander could not remember being this sick since before Leonidas first told him to go swimming in Pella's chilly streams as a breakfast appetizer.

"Hephaestion, I –" He stopped, not knowing how to explain, where to start.

But there was a knock at the door just then, and Hephaestion was quick to see who it was.

"Philip! He's just awakened; here, I'll carry that –"

"It's done, thank the Gods!" Philip declared. "Everything went just as it should – right color, right scent, and the scouts have returned, so the next batch is simmering already!"

Alexander suppressed a sigh. He would just have to restart that debate with Hephaestion later. Thank him, later.

At the sight of Philip, weary and red-eyed but appearing satisfied and hopeful, Alexander thought of the letter again. There were many people he needed to thank, starting with his doctor.

He might not be able to march out against Darius right away. But he could still do other things, things that would bolster his army's spirits, and reward the deserving. And what better way to thank Philip – and boost morale into the bargain – than to show everyone first-hand just how much he esteemed the good doctor . . . ?

"Hephaestion? Are the men nearby . . .?"

"Camping outside your rooms, practically." Hephaestion gave him a strange look. "They love you, Alexander. If you'd seen them – "

Alexander frowned. There was something Hephaestion was not saying; he would get to the bottom of that later, too. "Well," he said deliberately, "they can see me now."

Hephaestion understood his thinking immediately; Alexander could see it in the way his expression set. Nevertheless he paused, critical, cautious. Then he glanced at Philip, who shrugged and nodded.

"Get _everyone_ back," Alexander amended. "Soldiers, healers, officers. And while we're waiting – Philip, I think I can handle a little more light now."

Philip chuckled. "If your head starts hurting again, say so," he admonished, but went about, partially drawing up the drapes.

The light made Alexander blink but did not bother him, not too much. "Let the soldiers come in first," he added, to Hephaestion.

Hephaestion shook his head wryly, then, and Alexander knew things were all right, at least for now. "Soldiers first, Alexander, of course."

Alexander watched him go, watched Philip smiling despite his fatigue, watched the room brighten. He reached under the pillow, and got the letter ready in his hand.

* * *

_Feedback treasured!_

_last tweaked 02 July 2007_


	4. Natural

**A/N**: For people who like going back to the original source: Plutarch and Curtius provided the framework for this story, but especially in this chapter (with the event itself) a lot stems from their accounts – especially Curtius'.

So, the "political" and other discussion stuff here was quite tricky to write – I would much appreciate comments/constructive criticism on this aspect, especially!

* * *

**Chapter 4: Natural**

Hephaestion must have meant it, literally, about the soldiers camping outside Alexander's rooms, for no sooner had Philip finished pulling aside the last curtain than the first man peered tentatively around the door. Alexander recognized the wrinkled, sunburned visage – a soldier who had answered some of Alexander's earliest questions about battle, who was already a tough old sergeant-at-arms when Alexander got his first command. All the more significant, then, the hesitation in his grim, weathered features.

It brought a smile to Alexander's face – made it easy, almost, to sit up a little straighter, and give a reassuring nod. "What, Heracleides? I haven't turned into another Gorgon, have I?"

A sudden grin broke across the old warrior's countenance. He turned back momentarily to announce, "He _is_ awake, lads," emotion straining through the hush of his voice, and immediately a cluster of them, young, old, hale, hobbling, from recent recruits to seasoned veterans, tumbled into the room, unwontedly clumsy as they attempted to file in and stand in order.

One of the youngest, a foot soldier who had only just got his first battle scar, blurted out, "You wanted to see us, Alexander, so we're here!"

A few half-hearted frowns were shot his way but no one rebuked him, for he had merely spoken for them all – and Alexander would have perceived that, were he twice as ill. "Yes," he said, his smile broadening. "I wanted to see you. And I wanted you to see me. To see that I'm just fine."

They stopped fidgeting at that. Grins appeared on the younger faces, while a few of the older gazes even started shining with tears; they abandoned all efforts to stay respectably disciplined and poured forth a flood of anxious inquiries and fervent wishes for Alexander's health. Even as the commanders started arriving, not one of the soldiers took notice, and the ranking officers had to elbow their way in.

Leonnatus squinted hard at Alexander, then grinned. "Zeus' blessings, Alexander! You look better than you have in days!"

"Which isn't saying much!" Perdiccas chuckled. "But it's something!"

Alexander did not miss the general air of relief, so obvious even in the commanders' greetings. Even Craterus' voice was a little rougher than usual as he admitted, "We feared the worst, for a while there."

"Nonsense," Alexander declared, smiling as he met each man's gaze in turn. "And I'm already better than I was."

The officers' skeptical frowns told Alexander what they thought of _that_, and Alexander sensed that Eumenes, ever a pragmatist, might even be on the point of saying it aloud – so Alexander said it first. "So far, only a little better, true. But I have the best doctors looking after me. Isn't that so, Philip?"

He turned, to watch as much as listen for Philip's response.

He had known Philip all his life, it seemed, and the more he thought about it, the less he credited the suspicions reported in Parmenion's letter. Yet, no matter how it lifted his spirits to see his men, he had certainly not lost his presence of mind. If, Gods forbid, the letter's warning were true, these final moments before he actually took the medicine would tell him so. And if the letter was false, as he believed, then this was the perfect time to show Philip his trust.

Philip chuckled good-naturedly, going along with Alexander's show of confidence for his soldiers. But as he approached with the medicine he murmured, low so only Alexander could hear, "You must still take care, Alexander. Yes, I know what you'll say to that, but truly this is only the first step in curing you –"

"It's a step," Alexander said, equally quiet. "Is it not?"

Taking Alexander's intense gaze as a touch of his usual resistance to any cautionary medical advice, Philip sighed. "A first step it is," he conceded with a fond smile, then continued at his normal volume. "Drink it slowly – nurse it, as you do your wine when you're with friends. Otherwise it'll give your innards a good kick, sharp as a wild colt."

More than ever Alexander was convinced – the letter was wrong, and he was right.

The other physicians had arrived by now, and the spacious chamber was packed. At a glance, Alexander took it all in: the physicians, these soldiers whom he loved and who loved him in return, and the officers, his friends, men he trusted and esteemed. And there at the door, finally, Hephaestion – just now ushering in Critodemus with especial courtesy. The hardheaded surgeon looked unwontedly flustered by this particular consideration, though Hephaestion seemed quite oblivious, unaware that he was doing anything remarkable at all. Alexander felt buoyed, felt like laughing.

He made a point of holding out his own hand for Philip's brew.

Philip raised an eyebrow, and was careful to hold on to the cup until Alexander's grasp was sure. But he did give it over. So it was, that Alexander accepted the medicine with his right hand, and drew the letter from under the pillows with his left.

"Have a look, dear Philip," he said, not yet raising the cup to his lips, making sure to speak clearly, so everyone could hear. "I think it will interest you."

Then he had to fight the urge to contort his features in disgust, incongruous as that would be with his point of trusting Philip. He had mixed his fair share of healing brews, however, and was not surprised - naturally, the medicine smelled utterly awful.

He continued watching Philip as he accustomed himself to the concoction's reek.

Philip's eyes widened as he read. He blinked several times at the letter, then, slowly, looked up at Alexander.

"This – I – It's –" He broke off, trying in vain to steady himself. "I don't know why Parmenion says this, Alexander, but I swear, I would _never_ –! This – this is not true, I – I am no _traitor_!" he spat out the word like a curse. Then, as if just now realizing there were others in the room, he glanced in horror toward the horde of shocked and suddenly very hostile faces crowding all around. His expression twisted in indignation, in injury – and that, more than anything, assured Alexander, even before Philip's mouth thinned in determination, his eyes falling on the cup still resting in Alexander's hand, its contents untouched. "If you take the medicine, Alexander, your recovery will be proof enough of my innocence. And the sooner you take it, the better, but there is more being made. So if you wish it, if you no longer trust me as you have all these years –"

He reached for the cup, but Alexander had heard more than enough. "Trust?" Alexander snorted. "I sent _you_ with Hephaestion. Don't be ridiculous!"

Hephaestion had been watching the two of them in growing alarm as Philip's words sank in, but at this he actually flinched, as if the words had struck a physical blow. For a moment, shock and dismay and a terrible dread all warred across his features at once, but the next instant he shot out of the crowd toward Alexander, bounding over a large couch as if it were a mere stepping stone (only to trip up, nearly, over a tiny footstool), while the other officers cried out in consternation and started forward, too, stands and fancy little tables toppling in their wake. But even as they lunged, tumbling furniture and papers and valuable pottery every which way, even as Hephaestion dived for the cup, Alexander had lifted it to his lips and gulped the contents down.

It was decidedly the most revolting medicine he had had to swallow yet, and his stomach roiled in protest. But he drank it all at one go.

"There," he gasped in satisfaction when he was done.

The commanders froze, their gazes fixed on the now-empty cup as Alexander returned it to a speechless Philip (with – considering the abominable taste – an impressive amount of nonchalance, if he might say so himself).

Hephaestion just stared at Alexander, appalled.

Amid the wreck of pottery, there was one last, miniscule break, as a piece of what had been a rather large and expensive vase splintered into even smaller bits. With a tiny tinkle, they settled into their final place in the ruins.

At last, Leonnatus broke the silence. "Well what'd you do _that_ for!"

"Alexander!" Craterus groaned, smacking a hand to his forehead.

"Arrest him. Arrest the lot of them," Eumenes murmured vaguely to no one in particular, but the physicians shrank back as even the secretary's order broke the soldiers violently from their daze.

"Was that . . . _poison_?" one of them hissed, pointing an incriminating finger at the now-empty cup.

"Poison," repeated another, pointing even more incriminatingly at Philip.

"Treason!" someone cried, and then all of them, it seemed, took up the heated call.

"Traitor!"

"Drag him out!"

"Put him in chains!"

Philip shook his head mutely in despair as the soldiers started to advance. For a moment he glanced toward Alexander, aggrieved.

Just now recovering his full senses from the wave of nausea that had followed the medicine, Alexander frowned. This was not how it was supposed to go. Had he not just declared, for everyone to hear, his trust in Philip! "Wait!" he called, certain he could still set things aright easily. But the full brunt of the medicine's side effects chose that moment to strike.

It occurred to him he really should have listened to Philip, about drinking it slowly. The room wavered in his sight like air above a suit of armor on a hot day, and it felt more sickening than ever to hold himself upright, but no, he could not give in; he had to stop his men from doing something rash against Philip. "Don't you see," he forced between ever more difficult breaths, "he could have done with the letter as he wished! I just _told_ you all, he's above suspicion!"

But the soldiers did not hear him amid their cries. He tried to speak louder, only to succumb to a fit of coughing – and then Hephaestion was advancing on him, towering in wordless wrath, shoving him none too gently back into the cushions.

Alexander grasped Hephaestion's wrist despite the grim fury in his friend's face. "I . . . Hephaestion . . . " But he did not have the strength to yell over everyone, not at this moment, so he gasped out, "_tell them_ –"

He understood that look, how Hephaestion's jaw tightened – _we're hashing this out later, you're not getting out of it I swear by all the gods of Olympus _– but Hephaestion immediately rounded on the others, straightening to his full height like a bow springing unbent for a new arrow. "_Quiet!_"

It did not quiet down entirely. Moreover, many of the high command looked askance at one another, or bristled outright.

Normally Alexander would have understood their reflexive indignation at having someone as much as decades their junior (who was not Alexander himself) taking the reins. Normally, Alexander would have let it go. But right now he was hard put merely to refrain from throwing up, and his brow furrowed; he was going to get indignant himself, in a moment –

But then Hephaestion continued, "Alexander wishes to speak," voice deadly even, ringing clearly over the tumult. And Alexander did not have time to get indignant then, for the soldiers, at least, obeyed fully this time, hushed completely, ready to listen to Alexander again.

With a supreme effort, Alexander steadied himself, raised his voice to address everyone at once. "I trust Philip – and so should you all."

He turned to Philip, who was as pale as any sickly patient now.

"You wouldn't have chosen this way to discover the extent of my trust in you, would you?" Alexander sighed. "But you have it; you could not be more certain of it. I read the letter, and I drank your medicine. Vile stuff . . ." he disguised an errant cough as a chuckle – "but I drank it."

Though he was no longer able to sit up from the cushions, he held out his right hand. Philip had practically wedged himself into the tiny space between the bed and the table, so Alexander did not have to lift it far, thank goodness.

Philip stared at him blankly.

"I wanted nothing more than to get better," Alexander added. "But now, believe me, I am just as eager to prove your loyalty. To everyone."

Trembling, Philip took his hand. Alexander managed a smile.

He could do no more after that. Philip had been wrong in one thing: the medicine's kick was not merely that of a colt – it was like a kick in the gut from Bucephalus. Alexander's field of vision wavered before dark exploding stars, and his chest tightened briefly with alarm; perhaps he had not yet done enough for Philip. But there was a strange ache churning up his stomach, making a cold sweat break out on his brow, constraining his breath to ever quicker, shallower gasps, demanding more of his attention with each passing moment. It would be quite a while, at least, before he could speak intelligibly again.

But to his side, at the edge of his darkening vision, there was Hephaestion – and he did not feel too worried as he finally turned his energy fully to confronting the medicine's effects.

* * *

Alexander's hand slipped away from Philip's to press against his stomach. 

Slowly, Philip looked around. The soldiers looked to their sergeants, the sergeants looked to the officers, the officers looked at each other. Philip caught Critodemus' gaze for a moment; the surgeon's glance mirrored his apprehension, sharp with sympathy. The rest of the doctors were too frightened to look at anyone.

Philip shuddered. Alexander had said he trusted him – but Alexander had lost all color, and his features were scrunching up in pain. Philip could not help thinking Alexander rather deserved it; he had _told_ him to drink slowly! However, by the Gods he was done for if the officers could not be made to understand about side effects, if they took this the wrong way – and how could they not, with Alexander folding up like _that_?

As Alexander coiled more tightly into himself, Hephaestion made to grip his shoulders, but Alexander moaned at the slightest touch and Hephaestion drew back his hands as if scalded. For a moment he just stood there, frustration stark upon his face, but then he whirled and seized the letter from where it had dropped at Philip's feet.

He scanned it rapidly, then looked up. Philip was not at all encouraged to see that gaze focus on him, weighing, measuring – but with a glint of something more perilous, an uneasy edge, far from cool contemplation.

Then Hephaestion took a breath, as if coming to a decision, and turned to the soldiers. "A set of guards, for Philip," he said curtly.

Even though most of the soldiers were still staring bewildered at Alexander, a few of them tore away from the sight and stepped forward, squaring their shoulders in determination.

The commanders, of course, were not so easily swayed.

"_For_ Philip!" exclaimed Leonnatus. "But why?"

"Alexander likes to show trust in others, naturally," Eumenes muttered, "but this – this is really going too far! A warning – wasn't it from Parmenion, no less? – and he just waves it aside – !"

"There are _some_ who respect the word of a general who's served three generations of kings," Craterus growled, stalking over and taking the letter from Hephaestion's hands to glance over it himself.

"Parmenion advises caution," Hephaestion countered, "nothing more."

"But look here, damnation!" Craterus pointed as he read. "It's been _confirmed_. Darius has announced a reward of a thousand – _a thousand_ – talents, to anyone who'll take Alexander's life!"

Leonnatus swore.

Hephaestion gritted his teeth. "There's another possibility. There, after that line – the way Parmenion puts it, the informer was ridiculously easy to discover and capture."

"We've had a lot of experience," Craterus retorted. "Would've gone to Hades long ago, otherwise."

"Wait . . ." Ptolemy frowned at the letter, which was now in his hands. "Hephaestion means . . . it could be a ploy."

"Darius announces a reward for anyone who'll try," Perdiccas caught on, "and gets us jumping like mad at shadows."

"It _would_ slow us down, to be suspecting everyone within our own camp," Ptolemy observed.

Hephaestion nodded grimly. "Speed is one of our side's greatest advantages."

Craterus snorted, incredulous. "I don't believe what I'm hearing. You're dismissing Parmenion's report based on a bunch of if's and maybe's? If someone's charging at you with a knife in hand, you don't _wait_ to make sure he's aiming for you; you _act_; the greenest boy in the army knows this." He narrowed his eyes at Hephaestion. "If we _really_ want what's best for Alexander, we'd have the guts to disagree with him when he's wrong."

At that, Hephaestion snapped rigid, eyes flashing, every line of his body taut as a bowstring. His answer came swift, low, strained with fury. "Quite so!"

But then he visibly took a breath, pulled up, drew back. He shot a fleeting glance toward the soldiers, who – like the physicians, like the other officers – were watching them wide-eyed, stock-still. "Quite so," he repeated tightly, schooling his features to cold aloofness. "We do tell him when we disagree."

Craterus understood the glance and grimaced – one of his strongest beliefs was that commanders needed to keep at least a somewhat cohesive front in front of the rank and file. But he folded his arms, giving no ground. "It's our job, naturally, as his commanders."

Hephaestion gave the slightest nod of assent. "However," he challenged, "can you be certain he's wrong about Philip?"

Several commanders looked uncertain now, but there was still no response.

"Look," Hephaestion sighed, "forget how we found out about it. The question now is, do we really believe Philip is guilty?"

"But that's the point," Eumenes muttered darkly. "He _might_ be. And it's only common sense to deal immediately with any enemy agents – confirmed _or_ suspected."

"Fine," Hephaestion replied, "then think of the guard as guarding _against_ him. But whether he's guilty or not it does us no good to kill Philip off. He's the only one who knows what exactly went in that medicine, and if it really was poison, he'd be the only one to know the antidote, too."

The others blinked at that, then turned ominous gazes on Philip, but Philip was past shock by now. At this point he only thought, with curious detachment, that not even Critodemus would be able to sew him back up once the officers were through.

But then Hephaestion added, emphatically, "Besides, Alexander trusts him."

Leonnatus blinked. With a sudden flash of insight, he asked, "Do _you_, Hephaestion?"

"Yes. But it doesn't matter if I do or not," Hephaestion said, very carefully not looking at the senior-most commanders.

". . .'phaestion."

Startled, they all turned toward Alexander. He had uncoiled – had stretched out, even, craning toward the edge of the bed.

It was only because he was so close that Philip understood when Alexander mumbled, "G'ing t' be . . . sick." However, his paleness, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the very fact that he was not articulating clearly, was enough to rattle the soldiers. They froze, stricken.

Taking this astounding confession in stride – for astounding it undeniably was, coming from _Alexander_ – Hephaestion got an empty bowl from the table. "Disposing of the doctor is not an option," Hephaestion continued matter-of-factly, grunting as he shifted Alexander bodily toward the edge of the bed. "Keeping Philip around is the better choice, no matter if he's sold out to Darius or not." Then he remarked, "Well Philip, you weren't lying when you said the first dose acts as a purge."

He said it almost conversationally – as if he were not, in fact, talking to a person whose fate was teetering on the brink of torture and ignominious death. "Well, I'm . . . surprised," Philip replied, feeling faint. "That's remarkably fast, for it to start taking effect."

"Nat'rally," Alexander murmured, hiccuping in between irregular breaths. "It's _me_ . . . rec'v'ring . . ." Hephaestion thumped his back, quite forcefully.

"Alexander!" the soldiers cried, heartened anew by this latest avowal of a quick convalescence. The commanders exchanged glances ranging from skeptical to helpless.

Craterus shook his head in exasperation. "Well!" he growled, glowering at the soldiers. "Where's that guard for Philip?"

This time all the men clamored to be chosen, resolute, lit up with devotion. Preference was given to those who previously volunteered and Heracleides was immediately chosen to be in charge, while the commanders fired off a few questions at the rest about their ranks, positions, backgrounds. In the end, they seemed satisfied.

Philip noticed that Hephaestion's gaze raked them over too, though he said nothing. Strangely, upon seeing that, he felt marginally better – if only by the barest margin.

"See to it he doesn't try anything suspicious!" Craterus finished emphatically.

"Yes. But let him work," Hephaestion said. In the middle of balancing a bowl, a cup of water, a cloth, and a still-hiccuping Alexander, he turned on them with a look even more chilling than the Cydnus. "If you interfere with his duty in any way, you'll answer for Alexander's life."

At this point, Alexander made a noise strangely like a chuckle. Hephaestion frowned at him. "Philip, what's next?"

"Well – since he drank so quickly," Philip stammered, "the side effects will be rather severe – chills, you know, and weakness. Most of all, he should let himself just sleep – "

Alexander grunted disapprovingly. Hephaestion just said, "Understood."

"And, the next batch is simmering – I need to go see –"

"Fine."

Alexander drew in a wheezing breath and waved vaguely at everyone, though his chest was now heaving in what seemed a very painful manner as he mumbled, "All you . . . 've duties. Go . . . on . . ."

"Get out," Hephaestion translated flatly.

Craterus glowered as darkly as a thundercloud and wheeled around. "Well, let's get on with it then! Clear out! And, by Zeus' almighty wrath, you'd think _someone could've cleaned up this wreck of broken pottery by now!_"

Alexander's men had long since proven themselves capable of extraordinary speed. In under a minute, they were gone, and the wreck of pottery too.

* * *

He managed not to actually throw up until they were well out of hearing range – thank the gods they left when they did. After all, puking in front of one's soldiers was never a sight to impress, no matter how positive a sign it was that he was recovering fast. 

So it was a good thing, a small triumph. In fact, he felt much better as he finished, and even thought himself quite a new man – for the moment at least – after Hephaestion sponged down his face and chest and gave him a drink to chase down the lingering queasiness.

"I'm better," he said.

Hephaestion said nothing, merely piled a tray with the used bowls and cloths.

"I really am."

Still Hephaestion said nothing, just opened the door, thrust the tray to the pages who sprang hastily to attention, closed the door, and stalked back to pour a fresh cup of water.

"You think I've been foolish."

Hephaestion frowned, suddenly fierce. "Did I say that?"

"Just now. I wasn't unconscious – "

"No, you were only curled in on yourself like you'd been caught at the wrong end of a spear," Hephaestion remarked sharply.

"I wasn't unconscious," Alexander repeated, deliberately ignoring what Hephaestion just said, "so I heard everything. And you said 'forget how we found out.' Which means, 'forget how Alexander broke the news to us.'"

Hephaestion was silent again.

"I know you have something to say."

Abruptly Hephaestion turned to the table, away from Alexander, plunging a fresh cloth into a basin. "It can wait until you . . . get your strength back."

Alexander sat up a little straighter. There was steel there, under the quiet. He recognized those last words for what they were – a warning.

Naturally, he barged straight into it.

"Say it. Whatever you've got on your mind, say it."

"I don't think we should do this . . . _now_," Hephaestion said, very low, the set of his shoulders severe. Dangerous.

Alexander disagreed. They _should_ do this now, as soon as possible. If he were to make Hephaestion see things his way, he needed to be free of nausea, wracking coughs, and all such pesky distractions, and unfortunately he could already feel the heavy pull of drug-induced sleep.

He decided to go on the offensive while he still could. "Look at me, Hephaestion."

Hephaestion did. And at that look, although he still meant to get it all out of Hephaestion here and now, his sense of aggression melted entirely away.

"I'm all right," he murmured sincerely. "Really."

Unexpectedly, that did it.

"The others were right," Hephaestion ground out. "You could have handled it better. It's a good thing Philip's got a strong constitution himself, or he'd have died of fright."

It was a reproach – on several fronts – but when Hephaestion paused Alexander knew better than to think that was the end of it. Hephaestion was still trying to hold back, had not even warmed up yet.

Alexander glanced at the furniture, now righted but bereft of ornaments and pottery, and the little footstool, still turned on its side. "I got my share of runny noses when we were boys," he said quietly, "and I wouldn't have gone to Philip nearly so often, if not for you. Did you really think Philip would poison me?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. You _know_ I don't do well with split-second decisions," Hephaestion muttered. "And you didn't allow the rest of us any time to consider it."

A slow, wide smile spread anew on Alexander's face. "For someone who doesn't do well with split-second decisions," he sighed, "you were magnificent."

"Oh no you don't." Hephaestion scowled. "I was quite ready to throttle Craterus, for a moment."

"It wasn't fair, what he said," Alexander mused. "You definitely let me know when you think I'm wrong. More than anyone."

"Don't patronize me," Hephaestion said crossly. "I was on the verge of decking one of your senior-most commanders. If I handled diplomatic missions like that we'd have to fight tooth and nail for every inch of ground between here and Babylon."

"I suppose," Alexander conceded, "I didn't break the information to the rest of you very smoothly."

"Smoothly," Hephaestion repeated, raising an eyebrow, "as swinging a hammer at our heads."

Alexander grinned drowsily, but it was fleeting, as he recalled something else.

Hephaestion's hands were steady as always now. But Alexander remembered him flinching, earlier.

"If you didn't think Philip would poison me," he asked, genuinely curious, "what were you thinking then?"

Hephaestion suddenly looked very tired. "I only thought . . ." he muttered, "well, that you'd sent him with me. With _me_, just as you said. But no one on the mission got sick, Alexander. Yet here you were, with only second-rate physicians, afraid to treat you for fear of breathing on you the wrong way."

Alexander was going to reach for Hephaestion's hand, but Hephaestion abruptly stood and moved away, pacing restlessly. "I – I got Philip back here as fast as I could. Thank the Gods, for every possible problem, there seemed to be a reprieve – we didn't arrive too late, and there _was_ a cure, and Philip had everything he needed; you appeared to be improving a little today, even before Philip's medicine was ready; but then you spring that – that . . . _that!_ – on us, and suddenly I find out I'd just brought you the very person who's thought to be trying to _kill_ you; _what do you think I was thinking!_"

Alexander was very awake, now. Hephaestion's pacing sped up, grew more forceful.

"Gods, Alexander, when we came within earshot of the city – do you remember, Erygius warbling bawdy songs while you were trying to memorize something for Aristotle's lessons? And you'd endure until you couldn't anymore, and then you'd yell, _I can't even _think_, it's hurting my brains!_ Well, let me tell you Alexander this was worse, a hundred times worse, a thousand, because I couldn't think either, and it wasn't my brains, it was –" Hephaestion stopped suddenly, breathing hard, whirled and looked directly at Alexander.

Barely breathing, Alexander met his eyes, as steadily as he could. It was the least he could do.

Hephaestion's voice became strained, remote, like memory. "I – I _heard_ them, the men. Before the gates. And for a moment, there, I just stopped. I wasn't moving forward; I wasn't _doing_ anything – I'd already ridden the poor beast half-dead and I'd stopped urging it on – because I was nearly afraid to set foot in the city. Because, you see, it –" Hephaestion halted, took a shaky breath. "It sounded like mourning."

Alexander did not try to answer that. Silence fell, and burgeoned.

What he wanted to say, to put it into words like _thank you_, and _don't worry anymore_, and even_ I'm sorry _– _I didn't mean for you to_ . . . No. It would be diminished, even trite. And what he felt was so much more.

The bed was quite large. Wordlessly, he shifted, though with heavy limbs.

If anything, Hephaestion only looked sterner. For several long moments, he did not move any closer.

He did not mean it as such, Alexander knew; but that look, apprehension and exhaustion – and the memory of fear – was one of the strongest reproaches Alexander could ever know.

"I – I won't go jumping into any more strange rivers," said Alexander. What he meant was, _I can't promise not to do something, on the battlefield, just because others say it can't be done, but in little things like these_ . . .

Yet, it seemed Hephaestion understood the essence of it. "Let me guess," he said, "you'd just heard that Darius was driving his giant army along at some impossible speed, when someone told you nobody ever went swimming in the Cydnus?" and then he came over and, with a quiet sigh, collapsed quite willingly into the offered space.

He was leaning back against the pillows, but still sitting up; Alexander was lying down halfway. And it was natural, so very natural, that Alexander's head should come to rest in the curve between Hephaestion's shoulder and chest, like that. Just like that.

Alexander smiled a little, drowsier than ever but not minding it, now.

"All that . . ." he murmured, thoughtful. ". . . You did all that, with so much weighing on your soul?" He sighed contentedly. "I meant it, you know. When I said you were magnificent."

Hephaestion's expression did not lighten at all. He only gave Alexander a long, searching look.

At last, his jaw set with determination. "Promise me something, then."

Alexander blinked. Hephaestion rarely requested anything from him; while his other friends happily accepted all sorts of extravagant gifts and lavish rewards from him, Hephaestion held himself to a different standard altogether, just because he was that much closer to Alexander. And Alexander knew, also, that all those things he could bestow as King – lands, wealth, rank, power – Hephaestion would only turn around in the using and somehow, some way, return to him a hundred-fold.

"Anything," Alexander breathed, meaning it wholeheartedly.

Hephaestion looked at him a moment more.

"Stay," he said simply. "Stay and rest here – really _rest_ – until Philip says you're cleared completely of the fever."

Alexander stared.

Hephaestion calmly held his gaze.

"Hephaestion," Alexander murmured, frustration rising. "Why, _why_ must you ask that? That – _that_, I cannot promise you, even you, and you know it. Darius is on the march, and we need to move on soon – you, of all people, should understand all the preparations I've made –"

"Yes, the army will have to move on. But it needs you. _You_. Not with fever lingering in you, liable to flare again at any time because you cut your own recovery short, but leading at the front as you've always done, hale and hearty. Free of illness."

Alexander groaned. "No. What if Darius comes knocking on the door?"

"I doubt he'll knock," Hephaestion answered dryly. "Besides," – even drier – "you _have_ an army. We won't let him get within a hundred miles of the gates."

"No," Alexander said again, and scrubbed tiredly at his eyes.

Hephaestion pulled his hands away from his face. To Alexander's surprise, he did not look angry, though there was a certain steely glint in his gaze.

"Don't fret about it," Hephaestion said lightly. "Just – just sleep, for now."

"Hephaestion – I –"

"Hypnos has come to collect his dues," Hephaestion declared. "Well, a tiny portion of what you owe him, anyway."

"But –"

"Don't worry." Hephaestion smiled, his eyes still glinting with that strange, confident light. "When you wake again, we'll have plenty of scores to settle. I promise."

Alexander blinked, then smiled, too. _That_ was the sort of thing he liked to hear.

It was natural, then, for him to relax back into Hephaestion's arms. And it was natural, too, the way he fell asleep shortly after, his head against Hephaestion's shoulder, Hephaestion's fingers stroking gently through his hair, Hephaestion's voice accompanying him into the darkness, speaking of this and that and the other thing – everything that was waiting for him, and would still be waiting for him, whenever he woke, however long and deep his slumber.

So he slumbered, long and deep. Just like that.

* * *

_last tweaked 02 July 2007_

_Feedback most welcome!_


	5. Ready

**A/N**: Deepest apologies for the lag! Schoolwork's fault, mostly. But despite many curious (maddening!) last-minute obstacles, many things have come to fruition this year for me, so I'm happy, so I hope to bring you a very happy one-shot fic within a few weeks! First I'll finish posting this, though . . . assuming anyone's still interested!

Army estimates are from Wikipedia. Also, as used here "lover" and "beloved" are equal, without implications of roles, dominance, etc.

I did plan five chapters total, but Alexander and Hephaestion demanded more 'screentime,' and (even though I don't like the fact that I can never deal quite rationally with their scenes) who am I to deny them! Do tell me if I fumbled, though – I can take it! Ensemble cast will be back for the next (final) chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Ready**

A day passed. Then, another.

So time crawled by, uncertainty compounding with heavy heat to smother Alexander's army in gloom. Advance contingents returned successfully, only to find the base camp lying low, too anxious to take action on their intelligence updates or to celebrate their small victories and new alliances. The Cydnus kept splashing on its merry way, while the days melded into a week, and then another, and still Alexander lingered in sickness.

Philip was not faring much better than his patient. He managed tolerably while preparing medicine and tending to Alexander, but the army made it bluntly clear that he was not welcome being anywhere else, doing anything else. The shields of his guards were useless against the many gazes that tracked him like prey, like an agent of the enemy.

Usually, Critodemus made it a point not to stick his scalpel where it was not needed. Yet, even he found himself feeling he should do something. Unused to such sentiments, he nevertheless recognized this as a form of solidarity – soldiers were not the only ones drawn together under hostile conditions, after all.

Beyond any stirrings of sympathy, however, he harbored more practical objections. He could easily have snagged a position with the Persians and their bottomless coffers, as so many Hellenes had done. Instead, he had joined Alexander's medical crew, because he expected a marching army to be where his skills would be needed most – and yes, rewarded best, with respect as well as material compensation. Naturally Alexander's fellow Macedonians enjoyed a certain favor, especially in the top commands, but Alexander was said to value skill above all. In his army good men were properly appreciated, especially in the support staff. Yet, although Philip possessed both skill and royal esteem, neither was proving sufficient to safeguard his honor – nor even his life.

Critodemus went about his daily business as conscientiously as ever, patching up routine injuries, the odd fall from a horse, the occasional sparring accident. But he also watched and waited, and thought about packing his bags.

* * *

During those first weeks, Alexander woke, and was lucid, only twice. Both times, no one else noticed.

The first time, he awoke to silence. But before he even roused fully, he was aware of a familiar presence by his side. He did not need to see, to know who it was; nor did he need to hear, to sense the steady heartbeat, the slow, even breathing.

So Hephaestion was still asleep. Alexander took a deep, contented breath. Then he stretched – and was disgruntled to find his limbs weak and shaky, even after a very heavy slumber.

But then he admitted wryly to himself that Hephaestion had probably been right; Hypnos had come to claim his dues. Nonetheless, with the King of Kings to defeat, standing still meant falling behind – and of course _lying_ still was even worse – so he was going to get out of bed and do _something_.

However, as soon as he tried to sit up, a dull, hollow ache lanced through his stomach. He stifled a groan – he was awake, but that did not mean Hephaestion had to be – but the bed ruined his efforts by creaking loudly, and Alexander froze, his gaze flying to Hephaestion –

– who merely slept on.

Alexander stared, suddenly wondering how much _Hephaestion_ owed to Hypnos.

A second stomach pang served only as a distant reminder to uncoil from his awkward position. He eased back down, but not because of the pain; he was thinking of other things.

It seemed a long time, too long, since he had woken like this.

Ever since they began that race of a march toward Tarsus, actually. A march which the army had accomplished with speed exceeding even Alexander's expectations, if not his stated goals.

The work could wait, he supposed. He shifted just enough to get more comfortable, stretching cautiously this time. Finding a fresh, cool spot on the pillows, he turned his head so he could tell immediately if Hephaestion began to wake.

Hephaestion dozed on, untroubled as Alexander settled in.

Alexander dreamed often, and vividly. Hephaestion said he did not, not often – but Alexander always thought he looked as if he did. Anyhow his rest seemed pleasant enough, his features relaxed in a serenity that Alexander found at once familiar – so many times had he gazed on it over the years – and fascinating, so alien it was to his own nature. But it was not the grave perfection of statues and tragic heroes; not usually, at least, for Hephaestion's lips curved upward naturally, ever so slightly. Even when he slept (as now) like a log – Alexander could always find, there in the corners of Hephaestion's mouth, the beginnings of a smile.

So easily he did not realize it, Alexander's breathing evened and slowed, and he did not resist his body's demand for Hypnos' return.

The second time, Hephaestion was not there. But Philip was, and Critodemus too. Alexander stayed still, concentrating to discern their quiet conversation.

"I'm not claiming they were there to cause trouble," Philip was saying blandly. But his tone held resignation rather than indifference.

"It was a horde of cranky soldiers well into their cups, just outside your quarters," Critodemus retorted. "Your guards should've arrested them on the spot."

"And provoked a brawl? No, Heracleides knew better, especially when the guards were so clearly outnumbered. And when the entire army seems to feel the same about . . . my services."

"Bah, what do they know? These are the same knuckleheads who claim we're useless one day and come howling to us the next because they've tripped over their own swords!"

"Or drunk swamp water," Philip added dryly. "Here, haven't you spent enough time trying to fix those instruments?"

Critodemus suddenly sounded glum, even mournful. "It's an old kit, and not the best craftsmanship, but it feels right to my hands." Then he was all indignation again. "_Felt_ right. Now it's all scratched up. A few of those aforementioned knuckleheads flung it into rock piles, because one of their friends got a wee gash on his head, which – as head wounds will – bled quite a lot before I got there and stitched it up. Then they claimed it was an _accident_," he huffed. "And they're doing worse to you. It isn't _fair_, for you to be driven out of your own rooms; can't you report it to anyone?"

"Who?" Philip sighed, sympathetic but bleak. "Who could change the entire army's opinion at once? I only know of one man capable of that. And he happens to be my patient."

Critodemus snorted, but his tone grew a bit less gruff. "It's not much, but if you need to . . . move about for a while, you can always take a cot in the surgical rooms. Better than bunking in the sickrooms anyhow; you can't _catch_ a broken bone."

"My thanks." Philip sighed. "I'll probably have to take you up on that offer quite soon."

Slowly Alexander pieced their words together with his own recollections. Considering Philip's shock when he first saw Parmenion's letter, he sounded quite calm now. Still, his situation could obviously use some improvement – but Alexander would not punish his men for a little rowdiness; they had only demonstrated their loyalty after all. However, he must reward Philip well. Something exceptional, to match exceptional service.

Critodemus had served admirably also, and there was the matter of the surgical kit to rectify. As for the rest of the physicians . . .

_Blanket pardon_, he decided, grinning as he thought of Hephaestion – who (quite infuriatingly) always joined the healers' schemes and argued their side whenever Alexander fell to their tender mercies. Satisfied, Alexander yawned and went back to sleep.

* * *

However, as far as those who tended to him knew, Alexander woke on his own only to throw up whatever sustenance they had managed to get into him, or to ramble feverishly about troop movements. His mere lack of activity was demoralizing the men, so of course, details were kept private. Not even all the high command knew.

When confronted by the commanders who did know – commanders with doubts and demands and the power to annihilate entire cities, never mind individuals – Philip maintained his stance with the dogged certainty of a man who had nothing to lose. The medicine was drawing the energy of the body inward to purge the illness, and whatever else happened to get in the way. Alexander's chills, his unconsciousness, his inability to keep anything down, were all to be expected.

For Philip, updating Hephaestion was surprisingly _un_stressful, in great part because Hephaestion never demanded repeated explanations of side effects or specific timetables for Alexander's recovery. He was no more forgiving than any other commander, listening to Philip in a grim silence that would have been chilling, if Philip had not noticed the faraway worry in his eyes. But he did listen, and that was enough to feel like a reprieve.

Still, even that was not to last. After all, this was an army, and Alexander its leader in every way; military matters came first.

The sun had not yet risen. Shadowed as ever by his guards, Philip shivered as he trudged along the torchlit, sand-dusted path with the latest batch of medicine. Considering the incredible heat of the day, Tarsus could get surprisingly chilly during the dark hours.

Because of another horde of cranky soldiers, Philip had actually slept right in his workroom despite its herbal fumes and unyielding benches. He felt so drained that he did not even muster a greeting when he met Critodemus going the same way, just gave the surgeon a questioning look.

Critodemus shrugged. "I was asked to drop by early today. No idea why."

Stifling a yawn, Philip suggested, "They want a second opinion. Got tired of me always giving them the same tired answers."

"Aren't 'they' always asking the same tired questions?" Critodemus replied, arching one eyebrow. "Anyway, _I've_ got no answers. My part in Alexander's treatment is long over –"

Something in the way he said it, a sort of restless determination, made Philip pause. But then they arrived at Alexander's antechambers, and Philip's attention was captured instead by the small group inside – mostly lieutenants, captains, and sergeants. Hephaestion was leafing rapidly through a stack of papers while a messenger spoke, his voice barely audible beyond the tight little circle.

At least they kept near the entrance, where they would not disturb Alexander – for, from the looks on their faces, the news was definitely disturbing. As Critodemus stepped unobtrusively to one side to wait and Philip went to administer the medicine, Hephaestion gave them only the briefest of glances; his attention remained on the papers and the messenger.

Philip made short work of things and returned, only to find that he was now the object of attention. Everyone looked toward him, as if they had been waiting for him. "Not much change –" he began, but Hephaestion cut him off there.

"How long, at best, until Alexander can march again?"

Taken aback, Philip frowned as he repeated for what seemed the hundredth time, "As I've said, when he keeps some food down with the medicine, we'll know he's recovering. He'll regain strength gradually after that, but he _can't_ push himself. Not unless he wants the infection flaring up constantly, and getting worse each time."

Hephaestion persisted. "Give me a timeframe."

Philip stared, too tired to mask his surprise – and disapproval. He had come to expect at least some sort of understanding from Hephaestion; but no, he should have known better than to allow himself to grow accustomed to such a luxury. Struggling to curb his irritation and disappointment, he gave a bluntly honest answer. "At least a couple of months without tearing off on another march."

To his astonishment, that was the end of it. Hephaestion merely glanced at Heracleides, who nodded in answer to some unspoken question. Irritation faded; Philip got the distinct impression that they had just spoken, in more detail, for all Hephaestion said to Heracleides was, "Double the guard. You choose the men," before hastening out the door. The officers and messengers followed with alacrity, almost as if in formation, then dispersed in several directions once they got outside.

However, one of the pages did not leave immediately with the rest. "Sir," he said, approaching Critodemus, "you met with Diades the engineer recently."

Critodemus looked uncharacteristically caught off guard. "Yes . . . yes, I did. And you're the one who brought me to his workroom – Tirius, if I remember correctly?"

The boy nodded and deposited a sheaf of parchments into the surgeon's hands; Philip caught sight of neat, close-written designs. Critodemus' eyes widened. "The surgical wagons? By Apollo, I'd forgotten! Seems like another lifetime we designed these . . ."

"Diades is away, some land survey or other," Tirius explained, "but he left those with Hephaestion, who has notified the carpenters of your involvement. You'll have several of Diades' aides to help. Construction can begin at your discretion."

"Well." Critodemus looked up, blinking. "Uh . . . excellent!"

Tirius nodded respectfully. "By your leave, Sir –"

"Right, of course." Still a bit dazed, Critodemus waved a hand and the youth departed, turning the corner neatly on his heel.

"Huh. That's one thing . . . less . . . to worry about," Critodemus muttered incredulously. "When Alexander wakes, we can set off before he even gets his feet on the floor."

Philip was finally exasperated beyond weariness. "That's exactly the problem! How hard can it be just to _rest_ –!"

The surgeon's expression twisted wryly. "You're a brave man, to ask anyone to make Alexander stay abed for _two months_ if he's regaining a little strength every day."

Philip groaned, dropping his head in his hands. "I wasn't asking. I know it's impossible."

Feeling a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, he looked up in alarm, only to see that Heracleides' expression – usually inscrutable to the point of intimidation – looked almost sympathetic.

* * *

Hephaestion returned to Alexander's chambers late that night, footsore and hungry – which was common enough – and in a very black mood, which happened rarely indeed.

Craterus and the others had restricted communications, but rumor of Alexander's illness was bound to spread, and encourage trouble, if countering news of his recovery did not follow soon. However, Hephaestion's current concern was neither the Persian enemy nor the city-states and tribes back home. Vultures might be circling much closer.

Most forward contingents were returning as expected, but a few had sent only vague missives, claiming they needed more time to quell local resistance. Curiously, these were all high-caliber troops under influential commanders. Here, the main body of the army was staying relatively quiet, but that was curious too. Alexander's soldiers were accustomed to having their king in their midst, and should have been clamoring to see him with their own eyes by now.

And there was Parmenion's letter. Hephaestion respected Parmenion, as much for his willingness to disagree with Alexander as for his unmatched military experience. And after all, he _had_ helped Alexander secure the crown – a favor which Alexander had rewarded richly, in power as well as wealth. Considering everything that Parmenion and his sons now possessed, Hephaestion could not imagine why the cautious, wily old general would undermine Alexander's rule – not like this, with chaos so sure to follow.

However, an offhand remark from Craterus (of all people) had set Hephaestion thinking. The officer responsible for capturing Philip's accuser was regarded as an idler, unlikely to ferret out spies. And, as Craterus – quite openly disgusted with the whole thing – had mentioned , this slacker just happened to owe most of his promotions to Philotas.

Ever since Alexander had so firmly established himself as King in the turmoil following his father's death, Hephaestion had put worries about a repeat of Macedon's bloody dynastic struggles behind. A dangerously foolish mistake, as evidence now suggested.

But it was all so _circumstantial_.

Hephaestion did not like hunches; he liked acting upon solid facts – how many days' worth of grain they had; who exactly commanded enemy troops; whether a foreign dignitary knew Greek or really did need an interpreter. So today he had initiated an investigation of sorts. Yet, because he took pains to veil it all as routine inquiry, now he was confronting an even more tangled, chaotic, unpredictable mess.

Halfheartedly, he thought of Alexander. Alexander was comfortable with the chaotic, good beyond belief with the unpredictable. And as for tangles . . . he _had_ cut right through the Gordion knot.

But Alexander was in no state to act. Even if he were, Hephaestion would not have said anything, not yet. Not until he had solid facts – or at least a more solid hunch. He was tired enough to realize that he might be seeing shadows where there were none, and he refused to upset Alexander over it, especially while Alexander was ill.

Besides, Alexander was no fool. Hephaestion knew, far better than anyone else, that though Alexander certainly took great pride in winning the hearts of his men, he also never forgot that their love alone was nothing to count on. And the more powerful and influential they were, the more they needed tangible motivations to stay loyal.

Hephaestion glanced at the papers in his arms. The heat alone was enough to make one's head spin, never mind reports. With an unwonted surge of anger, he quickened his pace.

This tangle of shadows, which he was not even sure existed, would go away, would fade like smoke once Alexander got back on his feet. Because once Alexander got back on his feet, they were taking on Darius and his hundreds of thousands and whatever else the Persian empire could throw at them; and with Alexander leading them and a little favor from the Gods, they might just do what everyone thought impossible, defeat the King of Kings, and no one who claimed to be Alexander's ally – his _friend_ – could have any motive whatsoever for anything less than complete loyalty –

A sudden noise halted him in his tracks.

Alexander was shouting. Hephaestion drew in a small, sudden breath.

Weariness dropped away like a cumbersome cloak as he hastened toward Alexander's chambers. From what he could hear, at this moment Alexander was quite coherent . . . if rather explosively cross. Still, he was far from well; his voice broke just then into a hoarse rasp, which kept worsening by the second because he kept trying to shout through it –

Just as Hephaestion crossed the threshold, a vase smashed against the wall, mere inches from his head.

The servants and pages noticed him first. But Alexander sensed the qualitative change in their silence, their jittery tension eased by a glimmer of relief, and he turned, following their gazes. Everyone stayed frozen, still as statues, as the shards at Hephaestion's feet subsided from clattering to clinking, and then to silence.

Alexander's eyes were so clear, so different from the dazed, feverish glitter of these torturous days past, that Hephaestion's heart leaped in unbidden joy.

Unconsciously he clenched his hands. Logic dictated that it was much too early to hope. The real test, as Philip said, was to keep food down, and after that Alexander still had a long way to go.

But it _felt_ as if Alexander was himself again.

Hephaestion offered a small, tentative smile, trying _not_ to hope that Alexander would return it – and failing spectacularly. "I thought the . . . pottery we destroyed the other day was rather useless, anyhow," he ventured, "but I suppose vases serve quite well as hand-held missiles."

Suddenly, brilliantly, Alexander grinned. And with that, hope brought logic crashing down.

"You didn't even duck!" he croaked merrily, and with a mighty effort right after that, he finally managed to clear his throat.

"Didn't need to, did I?" Hephaestion answered, striding toward Alexander's bedside with a wide grin of his own. Utterly oblivious to everyone else's incredulous stares, they continued enthusiastically,

"If you had to throw something, I would've preferred _this_ vase, actually."

"Toss them all, for all I care! Why are you carrying a month's worth of papers?"

"It's a terrible thing, Alexander. We are going to suffer a parchment embargo."

"Fine, don't tell me; I'll just have to read those myself. "

"Enough of work; I'm starving! Have you eaten?"

"No; give me those parchments first."

"I'm setting them on your desk, next to the ten other stacks I'm sure you want to read all at once this minute. But look, you have entire trays of food to choose from, and you're letting it all go to waste!"

"From what I managed to pry out of these people," Alexander grumbled, sweeping his arm around the room, "whatever I eat, my stomach rejects, and then I get very ill."

"Here, have a drink, at least." Hephaestion started pouring, honey-sweetened water splashed with wine, kept hot enough to scald. "You _are_ ill; otherwise your stomach wouldn't reject food because the medicine wouldn't have anything more to purge. Speaking of which, Philip should have given you a dose within the last hour . . ."

"He did. ––You needn't look to the servants for confirmation, Hephaestion!"

"What? I just chanced to glance in their general direction. Besides, they nodded in agreement with what you said."

"I. Drank. The medicine."

"Yes, Alexander."

"So give me the reports."

"Where's Philip?"

"Philip! I've seen quite enough of him; I ordered him to get out, get some sleep. If anyone needs rest it's _him_, not me!" Alexander's voice was cracking again. "I swear he's intent on making me miserable."

"Making you better," Hephaestion mildly amended. He hardly had to wave the attendants out; they swept up the vase's remains and beat a hasty retreat, only too glad to comply, and quite thankful that Alexander hardly took note of their departure.

Alexander stirred restlessly. "Hephaestion, they told me it's been a fortnight since I . . . since the troops last saw me."

Hephaestion nodded. Drawing up a chair, he set the drink, now cooled somewhat, lightly into Alexander's hand.

"So." Alexander paid no attention to the drink. "Darius."

Hephaestion made a face. "No, Darius is not banging on the gates just yet. Perdiccas says the latest reports have him still along the Euphrates, not even at Sochi. Shortest route, he'd still have to cross a mountain range and a gulf before getting anywhere near us."

"Is Perdiccas _sure_?" asked Alexander, his voice rapidly deteriorating back into a croak.

"It's not like you, to give your men so little credit," Hephaestion remarked. "Come, have some supper."

Alexander shook his head, brows lowered. He was starting to brood.

Hephaestion sighed. "We're as prepared as can be, Alexander, and preparing more every day. You can have your pitched battle whenever you're ready."

He had not said, _whenever you like_, and that was deliberate. And apparently Alexander picked up on the distinction, for he started frowning in suspicion. But Hephaestion thought that getting Alexander to take in some nourishment was the more urgent matter, even if Alexander threw up afterward and obliterated hope's winning streak, so he added quickly, hoping to lift the mood, "As soon as Darius' lumbering slug of an army gets within range, that is."

Alexander scowled. The cup clanged, spilling a bit, as he set it on the nearby table. "I can't just _wait_ for him to attack. Just like I can't wait for you to give me those reports, so –"

As he started to swing his legs over the bedside, a tremor wracked his whole frame. Instinctively he held up one hand, denying even now that he was in pain, anticipating and rejecting Hephaestion's move to help.

And just like that, Hephaestion's earlier temper returned, blacker than ever, and _fierce_; logic just did not favor him today. Alexander was sweaty and frighteningly pale, and he was hunching a little – not surprising in one who had not eaten a decent meal for two weeks – and yet, he still wanted a battle _now_. Well, now he was going to get one – a difficult one.

Hephaestion moved toward the desk as Alexander forced himself to uncurl and strove to clear his throat yet again. "You want to know what I think will happen?"

"Happen?" Alexander gasped, collapsing at last back into the pillows.

"On the day of the battle. Against Darius." Hephaestion returned with a bundle of papers and seated himself on the bed next to Alexander. Leafing through, he extracted a map and, with an innocuous smile, yielded the rest to Alexander's outstretched hand.

Alexander was still wheezing, but he started skimming the parchments immediately, glancing also at the map remaining in Hephaestion's hands. "You were saying?"

"So, we're at Tarsus, and Darius is somewhere here," said Hephaestion, pointing to the places on the map to illustrate. "You'll meet at some point around this gulf, presumably, and then we'll finally be facing Darius and his millions upon millions."

"Five or six hundred thousand," Alexander corrected dourly, brandishing a report with the latest estimates of enemy forces.

Hephaestion shrugged; both figures sounded equally preposterous. "You've already ordered all scouting parties to look for smaller potential battlefields."

Alexander scanned the pages intensely, cross-checking, reconfirming. "He has twice the cavalry I do."

"They're only estimates," Hephaestion said emphatically. "The numbers are likely inflated."

Alexander's frown deepened.

"Or," Hephaestion lightly added, "perhaps his cavalry actually triples yours."

Alexander glared at him, stubbornly refusing to crack a smile. Unperturbed, Hephaestion drew up his legs, clasped an arm loosely about his knees. "In any case you'll push him to a small field somehow, where only so many soldiers can square off at a time. On his side, he'll have his giant, overblown mass of an army. And on your side, you'll have – approximately, of course –"

"Twenty-two thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry," Alexander rattled off, "along with thirteen thousand Thracian light infantry."

Hephaestion raised a brow but did not comment. Instead he carefully kept his tone low, soothing, like a storyteller in contrast to Alexander's no-nonsense barrage of statistics. "So then, the stage is set: your infantry lined up in precise order, ranks upon ranks, and to the far right, the cavalry, under your direct command. Together the army ranges across the entire field – spears bristling, armor gleaming; helmets shining in the rising sun."

He glanced at Alexander. Alexander's eyes were still on the parchments, but his gaze had focused deeper, on an image visible to him alone. Despite himself, Hephaestion felt a twinge in his heart. Softly he asked, "You can almost see it now, can't you?"

"'Buckler to buckler, helm to helm, man to man massed tight,'" Alexander intoned quietly. "'Single-minded fighters facing straight ahead – Achaeans primed for combat.'"

"_Macedonians_, primed for combat," Hephaestion replied, smiling to hear the _Iliad_ lines. Then he added, "Well, and Thracians too, and Paeonians . . . anyway, there's the general picture." Stopping just short of going on about all the facts and details as he usually would, he firmly, wryly, reminded himself that he was telling a story.

"So they stand, or sit their horses, in perfect formation, waiting to see you, waiting for your word. At last, you gallop in front of the lines on Bucephalus. They know this image well – you in your armor astride your great black stallion – and they raise a mighty cry just to see you approach. The captains have a hard time ordering them to quiet down, but at a shout from you they do, straining their ears, for they know you are about to speak, to invoke the Gods' favor – and _their_ valor. And then –"

Alexander was quite spellbound now. "Then . . .?" he murmured dreamily.

Hephaestion almost felt guilty for breaking the reverie. Almost.

"Then, your voice breaks," he continued matter-of-factly, remaining quite calm as Alexander violently started. "You fold up in a fit of painful coughing, and the next moment you're balled up on the ground in a cold sweat, clutching your stomach, gasping for air –"

Alexander stared at Hephaestion, horror-struck – and outraged. Hephaestion just carried on blithely, " – and the medics rush up and bear you to the healing tents while your soldiers stare on –"

"Hephaestion," Alexander ground out slowly, low and perilous.

"While your soldiers stare on," continued Hephaestion, "all forty-one thousand men."

Alexander clutched his head. "Stop, _stop_, that's absolutely _horrid_ – !"

"They'd be terribly aggrieved, I'm sure, to see you fall before the first horn even sounded! And disheartened for good, at such a dreadful omen – right before battle, too!"

"That – that wouldn't be an _omen_!" Alexander sputtered furiously, throwing up his hands. "That would just be the Zeus-blasted illness recurring –!"

Propping his chin on one hand, Hephaestion allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. "Yes, it _would_ be the illness recurring, wouldn't it?"

With a sharp, sudden hiss, Alexander fell silent.

Chest still heaving, he took hold of the parchments he had examined so painstakingly, as if to review them, but soon they crackled, crumpling up in his balled fists.

"Or –" Hephaestion began.

"Or _what_?" snapped Alexander.

"Or you can rest up according to Philip's guidance, two months at his current estimate –"

"_Two MONTHS!_"

"An estimate which can shorten, if you don't push yourself too hard before you're ready," Hephaestion declared, easily raising his voice louder than Alexander could in his current state. "Depends on you really, doesn't it?"

"As if I have a choice in the matter! Darius, and the whole _world_, will think I've lost my nerve –"

"You _do_ have a choice. You can choose for this illness to be just a throwaway line in Callisthenes' recordings, no more than a footnote in the great histories of the campaigns of Alexander – if it's mentioned at all. And soon after, you _would_ face Darius on the field." Hephaestion was not shouting anymore, since Alexander had stopped trying to, but his tone lost none of its intensity. "In all your strength. All your glory."

Silence notwithstanding, Alexander still looked ready to hurl every last pot and jar across the room. Taking a deep breath, Hephaestion slowly, cautiously reached over, pried Alexander's trembling fists open, and removed the crumpled parchments.

He turned away to put the papers back, then lingered at the desk, appearing to examine the trays of food. Alexander continued pinning his back with an indignant stare; he could feel it, its force so great that he nearly missed a certain goblet amid the dishes and amphorae. Still, its contents caught his eye: tonic of germander, one of Philip's supplementary treatments.

So, Alexander had taken _the_ medicine – but not all the medicine he should have.

Hephaestion muttered a few words under his breath – prayer or oath, they could be either – and poured himself a drink.

"The campaign. Will. Continue," Alexander growled at last.

Hephaestion nodded, coming back toward the bed, keeping his own drink and setting the tonic casually aside. "I'm sure Philip has no problem with your officers going out on missions."

Alexander glowered. "There will be _many_. You all had better be ready."

Hephaestion placidly raised his cup, as if in a toast. "At your service."

Alexander heaved a sigh, finally showing anxiety as well as anger. "It isn't impossible for Darius to be very close, you know," he muttered. "Man to man, he has more quartermasters, and the wealth of the entire Persian empire at his command, and if he just divvied up his soldiers into more manageable units, he could –"

"But Alexander," Hephaestion cut in quietly, "he can't. He isn't _you_."

Alexander looked up, surprised. Hephaestion's smile was small, and earnest, and full of care as he murmured, almost to himself, "There can only be one Alexander, in all the world."

Alexander's expression shifted, transforming into a strange mix of curious probing and earnest, knowing contemplation.

Strange, and definitely Alexander.

Hephaestion suddenly found it _his_ turn to clear his throat. "Besides . . ." he muttered, mustering a fond if tired smile to take any potential sting out of the words. "I don't think the world could handle two of you at once."

Alexander's gaze remained somber, searching. Then it softened, as if he had come to an understanding.

"Let's eat," he said quietly.

Hephaestion blinked. After a few moments, with an unexpected rush of satisfaction, he turned to the selection of food and started ladling two steaming bowls of broth.

Alexander watched him with a small smile. "No gruel?"

Hephaestion wrinkled his nose. "That would make _me_ sick."

Chuckling, Alexander cleared a space on his bedside table for the tray Hephaestion was preparing. "I still want to see the rest of the reports."

Hephaestion unhurriedly finished slicing a loaf of barley bread. "There, feel like having any of that?" he asked, light tone belying how deliberately he set down the tray before retrieving another stack of papers.

Alexander rolled his eyes, but after beginning first with the reports, he took up a chunk of bread as well.

Hephaestion turned to get his own food, but he did not pay much attention to the process, taking a steadying breath instead. After all, if the pattern of these last weeks was anything to judge by, he should be holding Alexander over a basin in a few minutes.

Reaching for the next sheet, Alexander grimaced and rubbed absently at his stomach. But as soon as he settled back, he put the paper down, perplexed. "Hephaestion? You – you didn't read the letter."

Having just seated himself, Hephaestion glanced at the parchment so suddenly laid aside on Alexander's lap. "Letter? Who sent it?"

"I mean _Parmenion's_ letter," Alexander clarified. "About Philip."

Used to Alexander's mental leaps, Hephaestion was nevertheless surprised. For a patient who had spent the last two weeks either unconscious or delirious, Alexander had an excellent memory. He sank back in his chair, tapping skeptically at his own barley loaf, which seemed rather tough, its consistency more like rock than bread. "No," he replied with a small sigh, "I didn't."

"You could have, you know," Alexander murmured. "I didn't want anyone to see it, because it would've complicated things –"

Hephaestion scowled.

"All right, all right, things got complicated anyway," Alexander conceded – yet not admitting, even now, that _he_ had been a major cause of the complication. "Still, everything turned out fine. Anyway, I didn't want anyone to see it. But I wouldn't have minded if you had."

Hephaestion started sawing vehemently at the recalcitrant bread. "Firstly, it hasn't 'turned out' in any way. You're still not cured. And if you ever allow yourself to recover, Philip is due for – well, I don't know, what _is_ the going rate for suffering the shock of one's life, being called a traitor, and then working on under constant threat of a beating from Alexander's entire army?"

"I've been thinking about that too, and don't try to change the subject, which – I'm sure you haven't forgotten – is Parmenion's letter."

Hephaestion hesitated. "I knew you wouldn't mind. And I won't deny I thought of it, more than once."

"So why didn't you?"

Hephaestion furrowed his brow, thinking back. "Critodemus told me you just . . . turned over, went back to sleep. If you were well enough to read, and what you read required any action on your part, you'd never let the matter go unresolved. And . . ." He sighed, trying to crystallize instinct into words. "They're your letters, Alexander. If, Gods forbid, there _is_ anything I would be better off not knowing – I think correspondence between you and your mother, all respect to her august personage, is an excellent case – well, I trust you to judge that." Hephaestion looked up then, determined. "As I wish you to trust me to take care of myself, when we're on the battlefield, or when you send me away on missions."

Alexander guessed Hephaestion's thoughts immediately; it was an old argument, just in a new context. "They said this region is chock-full of plague, and I was sending you into the most densely populated areas. You have to be careful about these things."

"'_You have to be careful?'"_ Hephaestion repeated indignantly. "That's _my_ line! At least I don't set myself up to be injured or ill!" He dealt the bread a final vigorous saw and raised an eyebrow as the knife cut through; the heart of it was surprisingly soft. "I even find myself thinking you shouldn't lead from the front. That you don't need to take such risks. Which, just so we're clear, you _don't_, not every single charge. But the fact is . . ." His voice softened. "In a way, you do need it. You thrive on it."

"You seem adjusted well enough . . ." Alexander griped. "It's not fair. It's your responsibility, in a way, to see to my safety because I'm King. And because I'm King, I can't do the same for you."

"Yes, well," Hephaestion grinned, "for that I'm thankful, I really am. I get enough ribbing about my standing in the army as it is. And – don't get angry, I'm only fulfilling a responsibility after all –" Hephaestion reached toward the cup he had placed earlier on the table. "Here's a tonic of germander just for you."

Alexander scowled. "Didn't Philip say the germander stores were low?"

"Huh," mused Hephaestion. "Good thing Critodemus ordered extra a few weeks ago."

"If I need to sweat out bad humors," Alexander declared, "I could just go for a run –"

Hephaestion set the cup into Alexander's hands with cheerful, adamant finality. "No."

Alexander wrinkled his nose. "It would be easier just to –" But then he broke off suddenly, eyes widening.

"To stop arguing and just drink it?" Hephaestion suggested. "Yes, it would."

It was proof of his weariness – or just relief – that Hephaestion did not pick up the warning signs until then, but he recognized the look with some alarm. Alexander was staring at him as if spying an innocent quarry on the hunting field. Before Hephaestion could even ask himself what loose ends he could possibly have forgotten about, Alexander swooped for the win with a rush of delight.

"_I_ know how you deal with it, now. And here I am driving myself mad, trying to hold myself back from holding _you_ back all the time! You – _you're_ the reason I have the best-supplied medical crew all the world over!"

For several long seconds, Hephaestion managed to keep his expression neutral. At last, austerely, he replied, "The entire army benefits." But there was a small, roguish smile on his lips.

Alexander beamed, triumphant – even after he drank down the tonic.

Talk of the medical staff, though, reminded Hephaestion of a less pleasant matter. "Your well-supplied medical crew needs to be replaced. Most of them, anyway."

Curiously, Alexander raised his eyebrows. Then he smiled. "Have some pity on those poor wretches –"

"Pity?" Hephaestion echoed. "Fine. They'll all be dismissed immediately and dispatched to border settlements. The hottest, driest, rockiest, most windy, most scorpion-infested – "

Alexander laughed. "No, no. Let them be. Blanket pardon."

"_Pardon?_ After what they did – or rather, didn't do?"

"Who's going to find me all those first-class, top-notch replacements – enough to treat an army of soldiers? You? Come, Hephaestion, you're supposed to be the practical one."

"If only I could," Hephaestion muttered resentfully, "I'd replace each and every one of those dithering quacks."

Alexander looked amused. "Aren't you the one always arguing their side?"

"When they're doing their jobs, yes, but they weren't! Besides, no matter how bullheaded their patients are," Hephaestion persisted with a significant glance at Alexander, "they should stand forward, carry on. It's their duty."

Alexander let the jibe go with a grin. "But Hephaestion," he said, as quiet as Hephaestion had been earlier. "They are not _you_."

Hephaestion blinked. Alexander's grin widened, expansive, understanding; bright with undiluted joy. "You say there can only be one Alexander, in all the world. Well, to that I say: for Alexander, in all the world, there can only be one Hephaestion."

Hephaestion's breath caught. That, too, was a look that told him Alexander was himself again, no matter what logic decreed.

_Thank the Gods, you're back; you're with me still_, he wanted to say, but his voice quite treacherously broke on him as he realized that he was _not_ holding Alexander over a basin, that Alexander had dined, if lightly, and remained just fine. He swallowed against the knot in his throat – strange; was this relief or was he getting ill himself? But if it were the latter, Philip could treat it; he had treated Alexander, and Alexander was really, truly getting better. Seizing Alexander in a fierce embrace, he breathed, "Only the best for you, Alexander" – a prayer winging past his beloved's ear.

He heard Alexander gasp a little, but his arms refused to ease up right away, to let go that which, for a while, he had seemed perilously close to losing – and which would never, could never, be bound.

But then Alexander was holding him just as tightly, just as protectively. "Of _course_, only the best for me," he whispered – fierce, assured, _Alexander_.

Hephaestion started laughing, after that – muffled at first against Alexander's neck, but soon ringing clear. "Confident as always, aren't you? The troops should see you; they need it, in fact. They don't even know what to do with themselves these days."

"I can see them first thing tomorrow. And then –"

Hephaestion grinned wryly. "And then, as soon as you're _ready_," he emphasized, "we can set off."

"When I'm ready," Alexander promised, and smiled.

* * *

_last tweaked 14 June 2008_

_(Sorry - no matter how many times I revise, after posting I always find little things I have to tweak. The changes aren't really significant; it's more for my own peace of mind than anything else.)_


	6. Only the Best

**A/N**: So ch. 5 left off with Alexander on the way to recovery, and here's the final chapter at last. My apologies! Since the last post, among other things I've been on a trip, my computer crashed (annihilating a halfway decent draft of this chapter), and I've started at a new school with a crazy workload. 

In this story's author's notes, I did promise 2 other fics. I haven't given up on them; I just need to polish them up, and for that I need more time. (Doesn't everyone!)

Anyway (assuming anyone's still going to read this after 4 months!) Once more: my gratitude to readers, and _reviewers_ – your enthusiasm, thoughtfulness, and sheer generosity toward this story have been simply _amazing_, and I couldn't thank you enough. – – –

**

* * *

Chapter 6: Only the Best**

One moment Critodemus was soundly, blissfully asleep; the next he was tumbling out of bed in the dark, jolted awake by the pounding at his door and wondering wildly what hour it was. Thankfully, despite his disorientation he had no trouble grabbing up his surgical instruments as he lurched forth – this sort of situation was exactly why he stowed his kit within easy, certain reach every night, right next to his pillow.

Belatedly he recalled that the kit was ruined – and worse yet, it would be at least another _week_ before a new set could be finished by any of the metalworkers he had spoken with. (Curse the never-ending requests for weapons repair – surely the men did not have to break spears and dent helmets so often during _training_?) So it was that the old, scratched-up kit was all Critodemus had as he flung the door open to a small group of soldiers.

If he had only been allowed a few more seconds to gather his wits, he would not have opened the door while someone was still pounding on it. As it was, a brawny fist stopped just short of his face.

Critodemus stared as the fist's equally brawny owner lowered those formidable knuckles, blinking back at him in matching surprise. He recognized the man – the patient during the last march who needed nineteen stitches in his right foot – but it was still much too early to remember actual _names_; and why, when the Tarsus skyline showed that dawn was still a good half-hour away, were all those people outside, running around and shouting at each other?

Sir Nineteen-Stitches cracked a grin – friendly, jovial, and completely at odds with that fist of his which had first greeted Critodemus. "Joy t'you this fine mornin', Sir!" he cried.

Critodemus squinted beyond the flare of the soldiers' torches at the tumult in the streets. "What happened?" he demanded, wondering why his callers looked so damnably _cheery_ when obviously something urgent was going on. "If you're not injured then who is, and how, and where?"

After a long, blank moment, the soldiers burst out laughing. "No, Sir, no one's injured, by the Gods' good graces!" They clamored to explain, voices jumbling in excitement. "You see, well, it's just that – wouldn't you know it! Alexander's up!"

Suddenly Critodemus felt quite absurd standing there, hair tousled, robes askew, clutching worse-than-useless instruments, but he could barely set the kit aside before Sir Nineteen-Stitches clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him bodily into the street. "Right now the King's talking with the commanders, but he's called for you healers, ev'ry one of you in camp, and he'll want t' speak t'you soon. Come 'long now; there'll be feastin' 'fore the day is done!"

The soldiers cheered anew at the mention of a feast, but Critodemus reacted with far less enthusiasm. He doubted that Alexander's summons was something he and his colleagues would _celebrate_ – in the past weeks, Philip's misfortunes had reminded him all too vividly just what it meant, for anyone who was not a soldier by profession, to live among these men whose very livelihood was war. In fact, Critodemus was seriously considering finding a better prospect, far from this army. With his skills he could easily get steady work, even among the Persians against whom this army fought.

But so much for all that, at least for now. Critodemus soon found himself squeezing into the crowd burgeoning outside Alexander's chambers. Even with his escort's eager aid it was difficult to advance – not because he was trying to make headway through a mass of people; he was used to dealing with that – but because despite the clamor in the streets, once the men arrived they became peculiarly subdued, a far cry from their usual loud, boisterous selves.

Critodemus had no difficulty guessing the source of that strange spell. Light glowed warmly in the spacious royal antechambers and spilled onto the street from the open double-doors; even the inner doors leading to Alexander's chamber were flung wide. Beyond them Critodemus saw that Alexander's bed stood empty; instead, various commanders were gathered around the antechamber's largest worktable – Craterus, Ptolemy, and Leonnatus; Antigonus back from a long mission and Perdiccas back from a shorter one; so many in total that the table itself could not be seen.

Even the tallest in the crowd were craning their necks. Yet despite their sheer numbers they hung back – a low, restless murmur rippled through the ranks, but no more. No more, that is, until Eumenes moved to spread a large map on the table. A gap opened in the ring of commanders. And there, in full view of the masses gathered so anxiously outside, was their King.

Instantly, they hushed. Alexander was pale after so many days sequestered out of the sun, noticeably leaner both from the illness and the measures taken to cure him of it. But for all that, he looked . . . all right. _Well_, even.

The assembly's tension gave way to tentative relief. Critodemus, however, would have remained skeptical even if he did not know Alexander's nature as a patient – so he kept observing, probing for details as he and his escort threaded their way to the front.

While Alexander held a scroll to read it, his hand trembled a bit, but he handed the scroll to Eumenes steadily enough. Despite the crush of people, Critodemus noticed a certain faint fragrance as he got close to the door, indicating that the king had already returned to his custom of daily bathing. Gone was the unkempt shadow of a beard that had started darkening his jaw. His hair glistened still as it finished drying; as usual, a thorough combing had not quite sufficed to tame every curl. Yet even this just enhanced the overall effect – reclining there among his commanders, Alexander looked uncommonly at ease, almost as if the past miserable fortnight of delirium and fever had never happened.

The surgeon's brows rose. He did not know whether to feel astonished, incredulous, amused – or all three at once.

Wondering just how early the _generals_ had arisen (or were jarred awake, as he was), Critodemus looked toward the commanders again – just in time to see Hephaestion, near the periphery of the group, catch note of his arrival. But apparently Hephaestion also noticed Critodemus' reaction to the King's appearance, for his gaze flitted to Alexander, then back to the surgeon. Critodemus twitched, suddenly yearning more than ever for the feel of a good, solid bone drill in his hands (though it would serve no practical purpose whatsoever here) – but then Hephaestion smiled, his eyes glinting with mirth, even mischief. Critodemus' brows rose even higher as realization dawned.

A bath such as Alexander preferred – plenty of water complete with herbs, oils, and flower-petaled scents – was no trifle to prepare. Never mind managing hot, sloshing water; considering that tremor in his hand, Alexander could never have shaved himself without so much as a nick, yet the job was done, as neat as you please. And perhaps Critodemus should not be surprised, after all, to see Alexander looking so much better, so soon, for it was widely known that the young King liked to appear at his best – but the Royal Pages were scattered in the crowd like everyone else; they had not yet been required to serve Alexander today.

Almost immediately Hephaestion had returned his gaze to the other commanders, serene as if his attention had never wavered, but Critodemus was left feeling like he had just been allowed – just for a moment – to glimpse a small facet of some great, brilliant jest.

As he returned to his examination of the King, this hunch only grew stronger. Alexander did not handle any more scrolls, but no trace of weakness remained about him as the commanders' discussion proceeded. To Critodemus' eye he certainly had not recovered fully, at least not in body, but in spirit he seemed little different from his usual self, his gaze now concentrated on the various speakers, now darting across the papers, searching, comparing, considering. His questions, though few, were sharp and precise, and it was obvious that despite two weeks' deathly illness, he was quite caught up on the essence of the latest reports. Already his fever seemed a thing of the distant past.

The crowd outside was absolutely riveted on these everyday proceedings, on their King, back from the brink of the Styx as if he had endured no more than a rather taxing march. Even some of the commanders were surprised – impressed – and as Critodemus knew well, it took much more than ordinary physical valor to impress such men.

In contrast, Hephaestion's only visible reaction throughout was a small, quietly satisfied smile.

Amusement won out. A grin tugged at Critodemus' mouth – until he spotted Philip nearby, right at the threshold of the room. Alexander's recovery was to his credit, yet he had been relegated to a mere spectator, forced to watch his patient hold a war council, not even a full day after the fever had broken. Seeing Philip's weary frustration, Critodemus remembered anew his own misgivings regarding Alexander, his health, and his army entire.

However, the commanders were facing even bigger troubles. "True, the Aegean navy has disbanded," Ptolemy was saying, "but those mercenaries are joining up with the main Persian army marching from Babylon."

"That would make a total of . . ." Eumenes shuffled through some papers, then looked as if he had swallowed very sour wine. "Five to six hundred thousand under Darius' command."

Leonnatus, looking only somewhat concerned, folded his arms. "Very well. We'll have to crush them in a single battle, that's all."

Others blanched at Leonnatus' offhand talk of "crushing" an army about ten times the size of their own, but Craterus only looked toward the King. "I daresay that's what you wanted in the first place, Alexander?"

Alexander nodded; the crowd behind Critodemus stirred like a creature awakening. Several officers surreptitiously exchanged looks of outright distress over Alexander's head.

Craterus, however, just sucked in a breath. "Well. Let's find a place to hold them off."

"Usual strategy, then," Ptolemy sighed. "Any narrow passes we can use in the mountains ahead?"

"A few, but we'd have to fight for them," answered Perdiccas. "The tribes there are already harassing our scouting parties."

"How about there, by the Orontes River," Antigonus suggested, pointing to the map. "It's the narrowest place on the main road from Babylon to here."

Ptolemy whistled through his teeth. "Whoever goes, he'll have his work cut out for him."

The other commanders muttered their assent. Craterus grimaced, peering closely at the map. "I agree with Ptolemy. But . . ." Slowly Craterus straightened to his full height. "It . . . could work. Perhaps, with the right commander there . . ."

Alexander suddenly chimed in. "You all speak as if we were on the defensive."

The generals stared as if Alexander had suddenly grown wings.

"Well, Alexander," Leonnatus said, uncharacteristically careful with his words, "you're much better than you were yesterday. But – look, we've established a good base here . . ."

"A good base, certainly – for defense. But we are not on the defensive, are we? It is Darius whose lands are about to be conquered." Alexander smiled. "I have never commanded the army merely to defend, and I do not intend to start doing so now."

Critodemus heard the King's words being repeated outside for the benefit of those too far to hear, spreading through the crowd – followed closely by a growing wave of chuckles. The commanders, naturally, were harder to persuade. "Alexander," Craterus sighed heavily. "This is . . . Are you sure it would be – _wise_, for you to march . . . so soon . . . ?"

Critodemus saw Philip nodding in silent but vigorous agreement.

Alexander paused. "No, I don't mean to march out before I'm fully recovered – _ready_," he finally said, shooting a glance at Hephaestion who, far from tensing under that pointed glance, seemed both pleased and amused by it. Ignoring the general bemusement of the others, Alexander announced, "However, I _do_ intend this campaign to go on while I recover. We will begin with your suggestion, good Antigonus, to block that pass by the Orontes. As for whom to send . . . Parmenion is nearest that pass, is he not? Send him a missive."

A startled silence followed. Already out on mission, with a lifelong history of successful independent commands, Parmenion was indeed the best choice – if Alexander could trust him. But Alexander had chosen to trust his physician, Philip, whom Parmenion's report had named as a possible traitor. Yet now it would seem he had not lost faith in this oldest and most experienced of his generals, either.

Craterus and several others raised their brows, but any misgivings were quickly concealed as Eumenes started drafting the note. After all, Parmenion's letter had contained a mild warning, no more, and outside the mood was already lifting, for to the ordinary soldiers Parmenion's appointment was just another sign that no matter how serious Alexander's illness had been, things were returning to normal. The campaign was on again – if indeed it had ever stopped.

"Perdiccas," Alexander continued, "you and Hephaestion arrange something about those mountain tribes – if talks can't resolve it within, say, a fortnight, just send in troops; we can't have them hounding our heels as we set off again. Craterus, Antigonus, find out if there's some way we can intercept the mercenaries. And now," Alexander said, turning toward the waiting crowd, "for some lighter business –"

"Pardon me, Sire," Philip broke in, startling even Critodemus with his intensity. The King, the commanders, the men outside – all turned toward Philip, who shifted, clearly uncomfortable with so much attention. Nevertheless, he fixed his gaze on Alexander and spoke. "In these last weeks I have treated you to the best of my abilities. But . . . Alexander, if you insist on campaigning right away, with your fever broken just yesterday, and your body still trying to sort itself out, sooner or later I shall stand accused, by every man here, of incompetence." A resigned grimace crossed his features. "Or worse yet, treachery – _again_."

Alexander's eyes widened. "Nonsense, Philip!" he admonished. "Haven't I declared that we won't set out until I'm ready? I will rest as long as you want me to, my dear doctor."

Philip stared. Critodemus felt his own jaw drop, and he was quite sure everyone else felt the same – such a concession from Alexander was wholly unprecedented.

"You heard me correctly," Alexander asserted. "I will stay in Tarsus until you say I'm well. It will take . . . two months, I believe you estimated?" Philip started, but Critodemus noticed – as Alexander did – that this time, the physician's surprise was directed toward Hephaestion rather than the King. Hephaestion returned Philip's glance with a small smile.

Alexander grinned. "Still, I have a condition: that we treat this as any endeavor constrained by the demands of a campaign. I know that recovery time depends on the patient's cooperation, so I shall abide by your judgment in all matters of my recovery. But in return, you shall do your best to help me recover fully, in as little time as possible. And if takes less than two months, so much the better."

Philip's shock had given way to wariness. Still, he did not speak.

Alexander sighed, then glanced deeper into the crowd and waved a hand. Critodemus felt his escort nudge him forward as other healers, too, were pushed into the antechamber. There was a shuffle, as the generals fanned out so the healers could pack into the room, and Alexander beckoned Philip forth. "Philip, I know what you've endured for my sake," he murmured, low, with a significant glance toward the assembly outside. "But they are the same men you've treated all these years. And here, today, I will prove the measure of my esteem – and theirs as well – for you and all your colleagues."

Philip finally gave a skeptical nod. Patting his shoulder, Alexander raised his voice to address all the healers.

"Well, gentlemen, between the lot of you, you've dealt me more aches and pains than any foe has ever managed! Still, I realize that I hardly make it easy for you to carry out your work. But I do want you to know, your service is very much appreciated!"

He paused. Picking up a goblet of watered wine on a nearby stand, he took a drink, but after that he did not set it back down immediately. Instead he made a slight forward motion with his other hand.

Now at Alexander's side after the healers had come in, Hephaestion stepped forward smoothly enough, but as he took up the thread of Alexander's words, he seemed somewhat reluctant, like a schoolboy with lessons – reciting well, but reciting nevertheless. "You follow this army, though you can work in safer conditions, and earn steadier pay, elsewhere."

Leonnatus snorted. "Must cost several thousand talents a day for all that fancy face-paint alone in _their_ army!" The crowd welcomed the joke heartily; they all knew about Persian extravagances.

Lightening a little, Hephaestion continued, "However, Alexander wishes you to know – and for the whole army to know – that your services are valued, because with your skills, you've . . ."

His voice trailed off just as his gaze alighted to Critodemus' left and grew hard, even harder than before Leonnatus' jest. Critodemus glanced over – it was Glaucias.

In the confused, awkward pause, Critodemus saw that the King was just as perplexed as anyone – until Hephaestion took up where he left off, animated by a new intensity and _definitely_ no longer reciting.

"With your skills, you've saved the army, life and limb, many times over. Just take Glaucias here, as an example." Hephaestion smiled – a smile Critodemus was quite glad _not_ to receive himself. Abruptly he realized that he was actually worried about Glaucias' fate in this whole business, but he quickly rationalized it; after all, punishment for Glaucias boded ill for every healer, and the cold smile on Hephaestion's face was no encouragement as he continued, "Glaucias is considered an expert on fevers. Coughs often persist after fevers, right? But a soldier's voice is vital; to give orders, to call out warnings – even, simply, to command authority over men who have come to expect spirit, _strength_, in those who would direct them."

The sea of men outside bobbed in agreement; Critodemus rolled his eyes. He could do without rhetoric, no matter how pretty, but of _course_ the soldiers were eating it up, it fed into their own ideals of themselves so well.

Yet it seemed Hephaestion had another point in mind – and Alexander looked like he knew exactly what it was, for his curious gaze had transformed into a small but delighted grin, which only grew as Hephaestion spoke on.

"So when Glaucias – or any healer – treats a soldier, he has only to say, 'Take such-and-such a tonic, and stay abed for so many days, and you'll get better – even if the medicine makes you cough out half a lung first." Laughter rippled throughout the assembly at this observation; Hephaestion waited calmly for it to subside before closing in on his target. "Any physician has only to give his directions – firmly, as sure of himself as any commander giving soldiers a marching order – and even Alexander, first among soldiers, will heed his advice. So long as that healer knows what he is doing," Hephaestion said with particular emphasis, his gaze pinning Glaucias once more, "and _acts_ like it."

By now, Perdiccas and Leonnatus were smirking, and Ptolemy and Antigonus looked highly amused also; Eumenes had stopped taking notes after just a few words from Hephaestion, while Craterus had reverted to his usual gruff self.

And Alexander was _beaming_.

Critodemus let out a breath. Glaucias was not a man he was proud to call a colleague, but right now he was just glad that his colleague wasn't being dragged outside for a beating – or worse. Glaucias, apparently, was just as aware of his brush with disaster. Wringing his hands, he sputtered a few indecipherable syllables.

Hephaestion raised a brow. Critodemus saw rather than heard his reply. "Don't thank me," he muttered, displeasure flashing across his features. "Thank Alexander."

For his part, Alexander was still grinning as he set his cup aside. "To all of you, we are thankful for the service you have rendered. By the end of the day you will each receive a bonus, as a gift and a sign of our appreciation."

The healers' thanks – many of them abashed – mingled with the cheers that arose outside. Amid the increasing noise, Alexander declared, "May you all continue your good service for this army, for many years to come."

"To your good service!" Hephaestion echoed, smiling with a brilliance that was both rare – brilliant smiles were Alexander's trademark – and, to Critodemus's mind at least, chillingly sardonic.

Alexander shot him a knowing glance and chuckled. Then he sobered. "Yet, there is one among you who has rendered such excellent service, that I could ask for none better." Holding his hands out to quiet the crowd, he said simply, "Philip."

As Philip hesitated, Critodemus searched Alexander and Hephaestion's expressions, still unable to relax; Glaucias had practically shrunk into a ball, and rightly so. But now Alexander was intent, earnest, and furthermore, there was something qualitatively different – warmer – in Hephaestion's expression.

"Philip of Arcanania," Alexander began, "You have endured much these past weeks, yet served faithfully through it all. But the accusation that caused your troubles was a false alarm, as I believed from the start."

"We receive dozens of such reports every day throughout the army," Hephaestion said solemnly, "and to tell the truth, men have been killed for less." Then, gentler, "Men have also left Alexander's service for less than that which you have suffered."

"You've proven your loyalty to me, many times over," Alexander declared. "Let me now prove my friendship to you. Today will be a day of feasting – to give thanks to the gods, and to ask their continuing favor. And to honor you. Later, at the feast, there will be gifts for you as well, the finest and richest to be given this day. But for now –"

As Alexander spoke, Hephaestion stepped forward. And what he then held out in offering to Philip roused the gathered host to a murmur of unanimous awe: a square of folded cloth, elegant in its simplicity, its weave superb, its color – vivid purple. The cloak of Alexander's Companions.

Philip stared.

Alexander's smile was warm and bright. "For now, please accept this small token of my gratitude."

When Philip still made no answer, Hephaestion grinned encouragingly. "Fear not, Philip, we're not asking you to take up a Companion's arms. It's just the cloak, no spear or shield." His eyes flashed merrily. "Though, Gods know, you _can_ ride."

Philip blinked. He still walked stiffly at times, thanks to that whirlwind ride back to Tarsus and the harrowing weeks that followed, but after all, he had only done his duty – hastening back to his patient and royal patron. But from Hephaestion – the officer under whose direct command he was serving at the time, who had been responsible for bringing him back with all speed possible – this was gratitude; more than duty merited, and certainly more than he had ever expected.

Moved beyond words, Philip looked toward Alexander. "Well?" asked Alexander, "How about it, old friend?" and slowly, as if in a dream, Philip nodded.

"That's the spirit, my dear doctor!" Alexander declared, then turned to his men. "And what about all of you? Didn't I declare today a day of feasting? Let's get on with the festivities, then, and give Philip of Arcanania his due!"

The crowd surged forward with a roar; Hephaestion, laughing, unfurled the cloak with a single shake and swept it smartly over Philip's shoulders. And then Critodemus found himself engulfed in a sea of men, men who clapped his back in friendship, men who vied with each other to lift Philip on their shoulders. Alexander's name sounded like a chant amid the cheers, but soon, Critodemus heard Philip's name as well, and in amazement he watched as the men who had treated Philip as a spy for the last two weeks, now bore him forth into the streets like any battlefield hero.

The commanders gathered into little groups, now occupied not with troop movements but with plans for serious revelry. Shouts of "Philip!" and "Alexander!" jumbled together outside; the cheers echoed and spread, until the whole city rang with celebration.

In the hubbub that followed, Critodemus heard someone calling him. With a start, he realized it was the King. After some effort, he managed to make his way through the press of people.

Dispensing with preliminaries, Alexander said, "You treated me at the beginning of this illness, before Philip could arrive. For that I'm doubling your bonus. But you've had your share of grief from the men as well, and now you're short a surgical kit, are you not?"

Having told no one but Philip and the metalworkers about this matter, Critodemus was quite taken aback. "Soldiers will be soldiers, Sire; I –"

"I hope this will suffice to obtain you a new set?" With that, Alexander dropped a small leather pouch in Critodemus' hands; it fell with a heavy clink, opening just enough to reveal the gleam of gold.

Critodemus started. "It's enough for two or three sets –!"

Alexander shrugged blithely. "Of course, I expect you to get the best smith possible for the job." His smile broadened; following his gaze, Critodemus saw that Perdiccas and Hephaestion were making their way back from across the room. "Did you have any particular smiths in mind?" Alexander asked absently.

Critodemus' face fell as he remembered wrangling with all the metalworkers, to so little effect. "To be honest," he said hesitantly, "I don't know who that would be, and even if I did I doubt I could persuade him to leave off the other work orders . . ."

Alexander looked somewhat surprised, and then, strangely pleased. Hephaestion and Perdiccas had arrived, and Critodemus now saw that they had brought someone with them, a middle-aged, well-muscled man with leathern skin and somewhat bloodshot eyes.

"I was going to have you choose whichever smith you wanted, but . . ." Alexander turned to his friends. "Hephaestion, it seems we were not wrong to think of a recommendation!"

"Excellent." Hephaestion grinned. "Critodemus, this is Cleon of Pella. When Diades needs metal worked fast and strong, and _precise_, this is the man he goes to."

"My thanks for that kind recommendation, Sir," Cleon spoke up in a gravelly voice, roughened, no doubt, from hours every day in the forge, "but you speak perhaps too highly. I do know a thing or two about surgical sets, and I'll need at _least_ a day, perhaps two, to turn out one of proper quality."

Critodemus was stunned. A week at the least, the other smiths had said. And now here was Diades' smith of choice, able to make a set in a couple of days, practically mandated by the King to craft his new instruments! "That's – that's not a problem, not at all," he replied, his voice faint from astonishment.

"If I could get a look at your old set, just for guidance?" Cleon suggested. "To tailor them to your preferences, of course; we can even make improvements if you have any in mind."

Speechless, Critodemus just nodded.

Alexander looked thoroughly satisfied. "Why so surprised, Critodemus?"

"Well, it wasn't – it wasn't a huge problem," Critodemus stammered. "I mean, for me it was, naturally; the instruments are the tools of my trade – but for _you_ – the King – it's such a small matter –"

"Small matter!" Perdiccas cried in mock horror. "I think not!"

"You could be stitching up any one of us next," Hephaestion observed wryly, "so of course you must have proper instruments!"

"But –" Critodemus stared at the King as a new question arose in his mind. "How did you know –?"

Alexander smiled enigmatically. "There is not much that escapes my attention, Critodemus, whether it pertains to soldiers or support crew." Leaving Critodemus with no more of an answer than that, he moved on. "The men who damaged your old kit, I forgive, because they acted from concern for me. But you were wronged nonetheless, and I hope their actions will not cost us your service."

"I second that," groaned Perdiccas. "Zeus save me from Alexander when he's told to rest up because of an injury! At least Alexander listens to you sometimes." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Alexander only lets the best of the best work on him, you see."

"And that's on a good day." Hephaestion chuckled. "Really, Critodemus, as long ply your trade with us, you'll be saving everyone a lot of headaches, too."

Alexander shot his friends a look of mock exasperation, but did not deny their words. And before Critodemus could muster a reply, Leonnatus burst through the crowd. "Right, only the best of the best for Alexander; anything less is intolerable – so how about we break open those barrels of Sardis wine, delivered just last week?"

Amid the laughter and even more spirited suggestions that followed, Cleon tapped Critodemus' shoulder. "Shall we start off, then?" he shouted over the racket, and Critodemus cracked a grin.

"Of course! Let me get my old set to show you . . ."

And so smith and surgeon set off, talking animatedly over their project while others debated roasts and wine, dances and divine sacrifices.

A score of paces out the door, Critodemus turned for a final glance at the King. If possible, he looked even better for all the uproar. Even now people still clustered around him, eager to offer congratulations on his returning health, and everyone was in high spirits as they poured out the doors and set off speedily, after long days of bleak suspense, to prepare for the sacrifices and the feast.

At that moment, Hephaestion and Leonnatus came out, followed by the Royal Pages. Most of the boys dashed off to enjoy the holiday, while a few of the older ones lingered, clamoring for plum assignments during the feast. But Hephaestion only stayed there briefly, exchanging another jest with Leonnatus as Alexander pressed hands with a final group of soldiers. As these last visitors trickled out of the royal chambers, Leonnatus rallied the pages, then plunged lustily into the crowd, happily shouting for help to unpack Sardis wine and getting a most enthusiastic response.

For a long moment, Hephaestion stood at the threshold. To Critodemus, he seemed an oddly singular figure – a little detached, but by no means isolated, silhouetted there in the ruddy gold light of the rising sun.

With a small smile, he turned away, and headed back inside, where only Alexander yet remained.

So he returned, though no signal that Critodemus could see had passed between them. Critodemus watched him go, noting – as he always did, in observing patients – the movement, the language of the body: the light, long stride, the confident, easy set of the shoulders.

With the general excitement over Alexander's astonishing, sudden recovery, it was only now that the surgeon realized that Hephaestion, too, had undergone an overnight transformation of sorts. Gone the stern, withdrawn commander, seeming all the more grim and unyielding for his youth and striking good looks; here again was the easygoing, good-humored young man who was a competent officer, yes, but also one of the intimate circle of Alexander's closest companions. And the only one who was even more to Alexander than a reliable deputy and a dear friend, if Critodemus' hunch was right.

Laughter rang heartily from Alexander's chambers.

Cleon spoke, rousing Critodemus from his musings. "You're only realizing just now?"

Critodemus blinked.

"I forget; you're not from Pella." Cleon grinned amiably. "If you'd seen them growing up, you'd know. But they do keep marvelous quiet about it. Still," he sighed, "I warrant someday Alexander's going to declare it to the world, somehow – something unbelievably grand. . . . The two of them –"

With a fond chuckle, he left off there, as if no more needed to be said.

_Only the best for Alexander_, Critodemus mused, then chuckled. Even without Cleon's confirmation, he would have wondered no longer. Indeed, no more needed to be said.

_Only the best_.

Yes, he would stay. Apollo willing, he would follow Alexander's army, for a good many years to come.

* * *

_This story takes place in August/September 333 BC. In November of that year, despite commanding a mere fraction of his opponent's troops, Alexander defeated Darius at the Battle of Issus, won the royal treasury and control of the royal family, and put the Great King of Persia on the run._

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* * *

_- end - 

_Feedback, as always, is cherished._


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